Dying to Know

My sister is one of those people who just hates to wait until the last minute to do anything. I always thought that was a very admirable trait until she asked me the other day, between bites of her tuna fish sandwich at the corner cafe, if I wanted to be cremated or buried when I die.

I have no idea what brought that on. Maybe she knows something I don't. If that wasn't enough, she had additional questions about my funeral. The cool part was that I didn't flinch or look up or anything. Nothing Miss Morbid Pants had to say got me excited or kept me from the food on my plate. When she was quite done with her questioning, I calmly and very elegantly told her, with my head slightly tilted and nose in the air, that my death would not be unlike my life... completely fabulous in every way. I wanted it all.

The crazy thing is that I have actually planned this whole event in my head a hundred times, and I was kind of glad she was asking. I told her that I know exactly what I would like when I leave this earth and if she really wanted to know, I would tell her.

She explained very sweetly that I am so exacting about special events that she wanted to make sure that I had everything perfect when the day came. Once we got over the initial icki-ness of the conversation, we began to talk about it with great sensitivity. It just seemed like the perfect no-holds-barred opportunity to spit it all out. I took a deep breath and began.

"I want a nice casket," I said, “Don't let them sell you one that costs the same as a car, just get a decent one that you can fix up real fast." I then explained that it only had to look pretty good from the outside because the mega loads of floral tributes flanking it would cover most of it up. I went on to say that it was the inside that had to be really great. I wanted lots of padding and sumptuous poofiness that would be "Fifi-ized" when she and my other sister re-upholstered the inside with leopard print velvet. I assured her that it could be done easily with a glue gun the night before the services. I went on to explain that I wanted to be laid to rest in a tufted sea of leopard print, wearing a dress make from the same fabric. She didn't get it, so I stopped to explain. "You know, Sister, like a COSMO cover when the model's outfit and the background are the same color and one just blends into the other".

As I continued with great enthusiasm, I got a glimpse of my poor sis across the table. I'm sure her knees were weak at this point, but nothing was stopping me now. If she didn't want to know, she shouldn't have asked. I continued by telling her in detail that I was adamant about keeping the “FUN“ in funeral and that I wanted to be sure that everyone had a time they would remember always.

"Maybe Six Flags will be available that day," she replied with a sarcastic lilt to her voice. "That might work! What a great idea, Sister", I said, just a little snottily. "Perhaps they can strap me to the Colossus (I love that roller coaster), but don't forget that the first car is my fave!"

I am sure my poor sister wished she never started the whole thing, but I was grateful. She now knows that I don't want depressing music or a sappy eulogy. I want Motown and funk and Mozart. I want my friends to get up and tell stories. I want laughter, not sadness. After the funeral I want a party where everyone gets stupid drunk on good Champagne and remembers in great detail how wonderful I was and absolutely daffy I could be at times. Then I want to be cremated and my ashes put in little mini-urns. I would like there to be enough so whoever wanted some Fifi dust could have some to take home and remember me by. Kinda the ultimate party favor, don't you think?

We finished lunch and our conversation. My sister was a little paler than usual and I am betting that she is secretly hoping that she goes first. But now she knows what to do when it’s time for me to take my dirt nap. I don’t have to worry about it at all.

It's pretty fabulous to plan your grand exit from this earth and eat a great cheeseburger at the same time.

The Name Game

I am going to be a grandmother again and I just found out it is going to be a girl. I am just so looking forward to having a new little one in the family. It’s all very exciting.

Although some women get touchy about being called Grandma, I don’t. It doesn’t much matter how much botox and lypo you have, people can do the math. If your kids are in their 30s and having babies, the grandparents are at least in their 50s. Some women don’t want to be called Grandma. To me that’s like Elizabeth II not wanting to be called the Queen. Being a grandmother is divine, especially if you have kept glamorous and I know every woman reading this has done just that.

What’s really cool is when the baby comes up with it’s own rendition of grandma. My friend’s grandson calls her Ya Ya. My grandson calls me Mama Dia, like Mama Mia, the musical. I love it. We have no idea how he came up with it, but it makes me smile every time it comes out of his sweet mouth.

Names mean a lot. Now as for my new granddaughter, I will have no say in what she is named. I can only hope that my daughter and her husband come up with something where she won’t need therapy later. They both have great strong names and are sensible people. I will be very surprised if my grandbaby comes into the world and I find out that she is to be called Scout or Moon Unit.

Just for fun, I looked up the top 10 girls names for 2012. Holy crap! Where have I been? I must have missed a meeting or something. The top 10 names included Seraphina, Imogen, and Adelaide. At least those are real names.

Lately, celebrities have cornered the market on giving their children names that are ... let’s say... unique. Beyonce named her baby Blue Ivy. Ok, if your name is Beyonce, you probably are not programmed to name your child Debbie. I will give her that. But I worry about Morrocan, Pilot Inspektor, and Apple. Will it be harder to be a grown-up with those names?

To be honest, it’s not just show business. I have friends who have granddaughters named Kennedy and Brooklyn and another friend with a grandson named Rio, because the baby was conceived in Rio de Janiero. Thank goodness he wasn’t conceived in Pittsburgh... that’s all I have got to say.

I like unusual names, but it is hard enough being a kid without going around with a moniker that you can be teased about. I wonder how old one of those Seraphinas will be before she can write her own name?

I can tell you from experience that I suffered for having a name that was different. One time we were at Disneyland and the gift shop had a whole wall of miniature personalized signs for a kid’s bedroom door. I remember being so disappointed when there was no Fifi’s Room to be had. It had a big effect on me. I wanted to be Angela or Katie so bad. THEY had signs.

I would love to hear from you if you grew up with an unusual name or you grew up a Jim or Mary and wished your name was jazzier. I love writing these articles, but I adore hearing from you. Let’s hear your stories about being named Apollonia or Winthrop? Or were you one of four Lisas in your class and hated it? Sometimes you get an interesting name because of who you marry. My dad’s secretary was named Olive Jameson. She then married Thomas Green. Yep... Olive Green.

Listen, I write for you all the time. It’s your turn, damn it! How did your name affect you? Let me know, will you? I will share the best ones with all my readers. It will be fun!

Do this for the sake of my granddaughter. I don’t think so, but if they are thinking about naming her after a fruit or a color, you might help change their minds. The baby’s mother works for me and I read your letters at our company meetings, so your emails are especially important this week. I need your input desperately. Do it for the baby...

The Secret Boys Academy

I love men... I honestly do! But I must be completely honest about something when it comes to you guys. You are really hard to understand. At least you used to be, until I figured it all out. You men people really had me stumped for a long time, but I finally broke your code. Aha!

There is some kind of Secret Boys Academy which you all attended, isn’t there? Yes, I knew it!

You all obviously go through basic training and have very strict rules. If this weren’t true, then why do so many husbands and boyfriends do and say the identical stuff all the time? Huh? Huh?

The one class I know you all take is Turbo Dressing. Otherwise, how can you explain how a man can get ready for a special occasion in less time than it takes to make a piece of toast? We girls have so many details to contend with while getting beautiful, but it really seems impossible that without special training that you men can get showered, shaved, and dressed for a big evening out and still have enough time to do a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle and balance your checkbook. See! I’m on to you!

It is now so clear to me that you are taught battle strategies when it comes to interpersonal relationships with women. An example of this is when a woman becomes upset with her guy, she might scream out something like “I can’t believe you did this to me! It hurts me so much that after I’ve asked you a million times not to do it, but you went ahead and did it again! I am so mad at you I can’t see straight!” A graduate of the “Academy” will look her right in the eye and say softly the words no woman knows what to do with. “I UNDERSTAND.” It’s so maddening…

It seems that you are also educated in the fine art of selective listening. When your woman speaks to you, you have been instructed to only retain the parts of the sentence that you particularly like. What a deal! That explains a lot.

I am not getting down on you fellows, believe me, but I am intrigued how you have gotten away with all of this for so long.

Now let’s talk about THE RULES. I know you have rules! The Academy rules clearly dictate that you never let a woman hold onto the TV remote for longer than 10 seconds, that you never ever ask a stranger for directions no matter how lost you are, and that you make every effort to buy all gifts at stores where you naturally find yourself. You might let your coaches (or whatever you have at the Academy) know that gifts bought at Auto Parts World and Big Bob’s Hardware are not THAT appreciated, even by the women who really love you.

Well, my handsome men out there, your Secret Academy is a secret no more! I don’t know everything yet, but I will. I don’t know whether you have a special handshake, but I think there may be some unifying symbolism to that leaving the toilet seat up “thing”. But, then again, not all of you do it. Maybe the guys who put it down are upper class men. Do you have a Graduate School? And if you have a uniform, I am not sure of that one either. Is it that shorts and flip-flop look that you are all so fond of? Oh well, I don’t have to know it all today. I have to absorb what I have already learned.

Love you, boys…I do!

The "S" Word

Remember when you were in high school and being a SENIOR was nearly god-like status? Seniors were the coolest, most privileged, and most admired students on campus. If you were an underclass person, your “cool quotient” went up significantly if you hung out or dated someone in the senior class. Being a senior had so many perks. Senior trips, senior rings, senior prom, and, of course, graduation and all the parties and hoopla that went with it. Yes, being a senior was a big deal.

Then you go to college and start the process all over again on a grander scale. You graduate and become an official grown up. You embark on your career and if you remain on a success path, you may become a senior partner, senior officer, senior account executive, or, even, a senior vice-president along the way. The magic of becoming a senior anything is very prestigious.

And then you turn 50. Just as you start getting used to the idea, strange letters start arriving a few months before your birthday. The first thing that comes in the mail is your letter from AARP... The American Association of Retired Persons. It kind of stuns you because most people approaching the big 5-0 have completely bought into 50 being the new 40. Then we get this invitation to join a group that offers “tools and services to help people 50 and over get the most out of life”. I was doing fine until I got their damn letter. Even though the couple they pictured on their brochure looked like Mark Harmon and Jamie Lee Curtis, I wasn’t fooled. They were talking about old people.

Then the Social Security Administration sends you a recap of your 3+ decades of work history and your benefits if you should decide to retire at 62 or 66. There’s that “retirement” word again! Why are they sending me this stuff when I am only 50, still working and feeling the same as I did when I was 35?

It wasn’t until I got my first issue of the AARP magazine that I truly understood what was going on. As I turned the pages, I kept seeing the same word over and over again. SENIOR. There were articles about senior housing, senior health, budgeting for seniors, senior travel and, even, senior sex. Oh my!

What happened to the magic and charisma that went with being a senior before your 50th birthday? Gone! Vanished! POOF! You turn 50 and the word “senior” turns ugly.

You can ignore all of this for a few years, but then 55 happens. Then the moment arrives when you are faced with the lure of the “Senior Discount”. You’re ordering a Breakfast Slam at Denny’s and notice that you get a pretty big savings if you are a senior 55+. At first, I pretended that this discount didn’t really matter. It certainly didn’t mean enough to me to order a Senior Slam out loud. But then you start noticing it all over the place. Rental cars, hotels, and movie theaters all offer discounts to seniors. When you are 55, you blow off a lot of the offers because it’s for 60 year olds and up. You make a point to announcing to the waitress or whoever that you don’t qualify for the special senior price. It feels so good. The airlines require you to be 65, so I have loads of time before I can use that.

The first time you admit to being a senior to get the discount is a life changing experience. I was at Dairy Queen with a group of friends and their kids. We all wanted big extravagant sundaes. I bit the bullet, ordered six ice cream confections and they let me use my 55+ discount for the whole order. Not only were my friends impressed, the guy behind the counter made me show him my driver’s license because he couldn’t believe I was that old. For me, the whole experience was like the first time I had sex, only better. A cute young man didn’t think I looked like a geezer and I had a big yummy Pecan Mudslide. Being a senior became almost blissful again. I think I just invented Senior-licious. You people over 50 people can thank me.

Southern Comfort

I came into the office this week and everyone commented how happy and “Zen” I seemed to be. I am normally a very upbeat person, anyway. My sister claims that there are cartoon bluebirds flying over my head as I skip through life. Even she commented on how calm and cheerful I have been all week. Evidently I was a complete joy to be around every minute of the day.

So what was it that gave me a feeling of such peace and well-being? It wasn’t a miracle tonic or psychiatric drugs or yoga that made me so completely serene. The truth is much purer and far less complicated. I went to visit my dearest friends in Virginia.

The trip there was a nightmare, but the delays and missed connections didn’t faze me, because I knew where I was going and the people I would be with were magical.

It was my precious friend Claudia’s birthday. Her husband and her sister helped me plot a surprise weekend and I was the birthday present! When I arrived at the house, Claudia and her sister Clover were swinging on the porch swing. You may not be aware of this, but all Southern women are mandated to own a porch swing. Even this girl from Los Angeles connects with her inner “belle” when swinging. When I have sat on that very same swing on previous visits, a demure coquettish-ness came over me instantly. If I would swing long enough, my speech would even change, with the word “please” becoming 2 syllables. I spent so much time swinging, at one point I had to hold back a “fiddle-dee-dee”.

Anyway, back to my story. I could see that the girls were puzzled as to who just drove up. When I got out of the car and yelled “Happy Birthday!” there were tears all around.

From that moment on, it was beyond wonderful. We talked, caught up, drank wine, listened to classical music, played with their dog Sam and dined at home. Claudia’s handsome husband Bob made the most spectacular fried shrimp. She really needs to keep it a secret that he can cook. He is already worth stealing. Claudia needs to be careful.

We all went to bed. I occupied the guest bedroom, but Clover got stuck sleeping on the sofa bed in the office. She was visiting for the weekend, as well, but because she is the gracious Virginia girl that she is, she pretended that it didn’t matter that she slept on the pull-out couch. She assured me that all that was important was that we were all together. Have any of you ever slept on one of those couches? I am sure if they had existed at the time, they would have been used as means of torture during the Spanish Inquisitions. I didn’t even realize until morning that she had to move the treadmill to roll out the bed and then move it back again after she returned her “bed” to its life as a couch. Clover, you are a saint.

The next day was St. Patrick’s Day. The ladies all went shopping in downtown Roanoke. Everyone around us was dressed in green, even the dogs and the infants. The stores were all decked out with shamrock décor and the spirit of the holiday was infectious. In Los Angeles, St. Patrick’s Day is only a big deal in bars. People wear green, but not emerald green. If you bust someone for forgetting what day it is, they will point to their khaki pants and try to pass it off as green.

We were invited for corned beef and cabbage at the home of friends. They live on this amazing farm with rolling hills and a stream running through it. The property is acres and acres and I feel like I am inside an English landscape painting when I am there. The friends, Jonathan and Diana, maintain this huge place all by themselves. I will never complain about feeding my dogs or cleaning my house or pulling weeds in my 10’ X 10’ patio again. Diana feeds horses, sheep, dogs, a husband and more. She maintains the house and does back-breaking work outside as part of her normal day. I bitch every time I have to haul the groceries inside. She can spin circles around any ranch hand and she is this tiny little leprechaun-sized woman. There must be something in the Virginia dirt that makes people euphoric. She is so happy with her life. I was so happy to be there and spend time with them. Being at their home warmed my soul and also my tummy. The dinner was ridiculously delicious.

I was there for 3 perfect days. I never watched a minute of television, but I sat on the back deck with Claudia, Clover and Bob a lot. We talked and laughed and reminisced. The whole time I was there I was more relaxed than any spa could ever make me. I slept like a log, ate like a queen and basked in the sunshine that good friends create.

You know what they say about friends, don’t you? Friends are the family you choose. So true...

Miss Octopus

As I write this column, I am also conditioning my hair and taping a "how-to" show on upholstery. I always do more than one thing at a time. Take last night, for instance. I made tarragon chicken while talking to my sister on the phone. The cord is long, so I was able to mosey into the service porch and throw in a load of wash, too. And, while I was there, I fed the cat, watered the Creeping Charlie and folded the clothes. My daughters passed by and as I intently listened to my sister, I used a sock for punctuation, and asked my girls in my own special “mom” sign language if their homework was done and if the table was set. I returned to the kitchen, made a salad, prepared a shopping list for the next day, and unloaded the dishwasher. At no time did I miss a beat or let on to my sister that I was doing something else. Her story about her afternoon at the dermatologist—though riveting—did not require my full attention.

I am proud that I can do a million things at once. It’s a good thing, since I am a working mother. With two kids in college, the prospect of me getting a staff in the near future is pretty remote. I have been doing this all my life, but now they have named it. It’s called “multi-tasking”. Well, whoop-dee-DOO! I call it “getting things done.” I wish there were a Multi-Tasking World Cup. I would love to compete. I would kick ass.

I think my personal best was a few Saturdays ago. One of my readers, Melissa, who lives in Southern California, wrote to me and asked if I would PLEASE measure her for a bra in person. My sister asked if I would help her with her garage sale on the same day. As it turns out, Melissa doesn’t live far from my sister, so I gave her the address and told her to come to the sale.

When she arrived, I was in the middle of taking the money for my sister’s jeans that had shrunk in the closet, while also trying to convince this couple that macramé planters were coming back into style. I scurried Miss Melissa into the house, measured her, calculated her size, gave her some bra tips, and was back in the thick of the sale before anyone noticed I was gone. I waved her goodbye as I ordered lunch to be delivered on my cell phone and sold my sister’s Flab-Buster before Melissa even got to the corner. I was hot!

My multi tasking black belt should arrive anytime.

By the way, Melissa, if you are out there, I loved meeting you, honey. Oh and the armadillo clock is still available. Let me know.

A Toy Story

I am a sophisticated adult. I attended college during the free love era with both eyes wide open. I am forward-thinking and non-judgmental when it comes to love and romance. Two people being in love and expressing themselves with each other mentally, emotionally, and physically is one of life’s most perfect pleasures.

I am bringing this entire thing up because of something that happened the other day. My sister accused me of being a “prissy butt”, whatever that means.

Sis and I went into a large lingerie shop in another city. We always shop the competitions’ lingerie to make sure we’re not missing something. Just as I thought we were ready to go, my sister motioned me over to the back section of the store. I was met with shelf upon shelf of what I assumed were bath and body products. Once I got there and started reading the labels, I knew I was in trouble. My sister took a step back with arms folded and a big grin on her face and just waited for me to squirm.

I would not be taunted, so I casually picked up one of the bottles of pink liquid and showed it the same respect I would a bottle of Chanel No.5. I admired the container and gave it a short, appreciative sniff. “This is very nice,” I said, trying to be as cool and worldly as possible. The words were barely out of my mouth when, out of nowhere, a saleslady with a purple mohawk and a ring in her nose appeared before me, as if by magic. “So, you like our Groove Lube, do you?” she asked. My sister was about to spring a leak, she was laughing so hard. “Uhhhh,” I sputtered, “I’ve heard good things about it.”

My sister accused me of being a “prissy butt”, whatever that means.

The salesperson then proceeded to dot my hand with the pink champagne-flavored goo and began massaging it into my palm. “It warms up on your body wherever you apply it”, she said with a wink. Oh good, I thought. The next time I am involved in an amorous interlude, I won’t need a sweater.

Then, without skipping a beat, she asked about my “personal massaging system”. She took my perplexed look as an indication that I might be considering an upgrade in this department. If she only knew that the closest thing to a personal massaging system that I have is a little wooden ducky thing on rollers for back rubs. I never used it for anything other than to tease the hell out of the cat.

Before I knew what hit me, she showed up with this contraption called “The Explorer”. As she whipped this cylinder-shaped thing out of the package, she began her sales pitch by explaining that it was designed to replicate a man’s most personal body part exactly. I have no idea who the model was for that damn thing, but Paul Bunyan must have been in town that day.

At this point in the demonstration, she started to explain all the different attachments that came with this vibrating wonder. It had a spiky thing, and a bumpy thing, a plunger looking gizmo, and even one attachment that looked like a hairbrush. I swear this apparatus could probably do everything but clean your carpets. It had multi speeds, came in three “fashion” colors, and was waterproof. “You can use it in the pool!” said the salesgirl excitedly. For a second I got caught up in her salesmanship and thought that since it could be used in the swimming pool that I should definitely go with the blue one to match my swim fins.

Thank goodness my sister brought me back to reality. By now she was gasping for breath and crying real tears. “Is she alright?” the saleslady asked. “Oh, she’s fine”, I said, regaining my composure. “It’s just that she has always dreamed of owning her own Explorer and she’s just a bit overwhelmed”. My sister’s look of horror felt nothing short of divine.

The salesperson sprang into action, pushed me aside like yesterdays garbage, and began wielding that crazy thing on my sister’s arm and shoulder, changing the speeds as she went along. As sister stood there, half-paralyzed from embarrassment, I shot her a sweet sisterly smile and reminded her about the old adage regarding pay back.

I hurriedly made my escape toward the door. My sister followed my lead and bolted right past me and raced towards the car. I was almost out of there when the saleswoman caught up to me and in a last ditch effort to make a sale asked if I had ever thought about nipple clamps.

“Got ‘em!” I said without hesitation.

“Well, what about an edible G-string?” she asked. “No thanks, too many carbs!” I replied, just before the door nearly swung back and hit her in the head. As I hopped into the car, my sister motioned madly for me to hurry up. “Let’s get out of this crazy place!” she whined. Spoken like a true prissy butt, I would say.