The other day - I received a note from an old friend who found me on facebook.
She wrote "I cant believe it. You look exactly the same as you did in high school."
Then I thought - "Oh my god! I looked like I was 50 years old when I was in High School"
Showing posts with label Blind Dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blind Dating. Show all posts
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Lunch With A Demon by Randi Sherman
Lunch with a Demon
A simple lunch with a friend can turn into the emotional roller coaster to hell for the victim of PMS demon. The demon has a mind of its own and will do everything possible to have itself heard. The victim is forced to keep the demon at bay while sorting through her erratic premenstrual thoughts and selecting the appropriate, socially acceptable responses. She must also fight the desire to unbutton her skirt or kick off her shoes because of the pain due to premenstrual swelling. All, while staving off an impromptu crying jag and trying to appear sane.
I looked at my watch. Jonathan was fifteen minutes late. If he is not here in five minute, I’m leaving. The hell with him! My PMS mind was racing. He hates me. He’s doing this on purpose. He does not have respect for my time. He obviously doesn’t think that I am important enough for him to show up on time. When he gets here, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.
Just as my blood pressure had hit an all time high, Jonathan walked in. “Hi. I’m sorry that I’m late. I stopped to buy these flowers for you.” He handed the bouquet to me and kissed me on the cheek.
My rage disappeared. “Oh, are you late?” I melted. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He motioned to the hostess and indicated that there were two for lunch. She grabbed some menus and asked us to follow her. When we reached our table she smiled at Jonathan and said, “Here we go. Is this okay?”
I thought, What the hell are you looking at! But I said, “This is fine.”
When we sat down, Jonathan took my hand and gazed at me. “You look pretty. I’ve missed you.”
You’re smothering me! “I’ve missed you, too.” I put my hand over his.
He smiled and asked, “How is your day going? Have you been doing anything interesting?”
What the hell do you mean by that? Don’t placate me! You’re not the only person who has something interesting to say. I’m very interesting. “Oh, my day?” I said, “It’s fine. Same ole’, same ole’. Nothing’s new. How about with you?”
Jonathan told me about a recent episode he had with his ex-wife and the expenses of maintaining the two households.
I was hardly listening. The PMS demons were annoyed by the conversation. Me, me, me. You’re so self-absorbed. No wonder she divorced you. I forced a smile, “I’m sure that things will get better for you. You just have to remain positive.”
He looked at the menu, “Are you going to getting the Salad Nicoise?”
What in the hell do you mean by that? Is this your subtle way of telling me I’m fat?
He continued, “I hear it’s great here and I know how much you like it. I think that I will have it as well.”
Nice try, Jonathan. No one is going to tell me what to do or what I should eat. Then I opened the menu. There was too much to choose from. I was in no condition to make a decision. “I’ll have the same.”
He noticed that I was uncharacteristically quiet and asked me, “Are you all right? Is there anything wrong?’
My hormones were raging and my eyes welled up with tears. It’s about time you noticed. “Nothing. I’m fine.” I sucked in my breath and tried to hold back but I couldn’t help myself. I started to cry. The more I tried to compose myself, the worse it got. I got the hiccups. After several glasses of water and five minutes of a relaxation breathing exercise, they subsided, and I apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little premenstrual.”
He smiled sweetly and patted my hand. “Oh, I understand, honey.”
Honey? Don’t honey me! You don’t understand a damned thing! “Thanks for understanding.”
At the next table a woman was trying to calm her child who was pounding his spoon on the table. Jonathan turned to look at the commotion. When he turned back to me he had a big smile on his face. “Children are so wonderful.” He motioned to the toddler, “Isn’t he cute?”
The kid is a brat and the mother should be flogged for bringing him into a restaurant. “He’s adorable.” I smiled.
Jonathan leaned in. “How do you feel about children?”
I was panicked. Aah! Get me out of here! I calmed myself. “They’re wonderful.” I changed to subject. “Is that a new tie?”
It seemed to be a safe subject. That is, unless his ex-wife bought it for him.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Purse Patrol - by Randi Sherman, The author of Paula Takes A Risk
Purse Patrol
When my friends and I arrived at the club, we found a vacant table and sat down. Then the inevitable happened, I heard the phrase, “Will you watch my purse for me?” Before I could answer, clutches, backpacks and evening bags were all piled up on the table in front of me. Oh my God! I had been caught completely by surprise. I had been appointed as the purse-monitor for the evening. I quickly whipped out a hand mirror and began an assessment to determine what had gone wrong. Was it my hair? Was it my choice of clothing? Had I been too quiet in the car on way to the club? Did my friends perceive my silence as a bad mood? Whatever the case, there was nothing that could be done now. Unceremoniously, I had been assigned to purse-duty.
As I sat there, I called upon my improvisational skills and tried to act as if my obvious solitude didn’t bother me. I attempted to appear as if I enjoyed watching all of the socializing that was going on around me. With faux confidence, I attempted to look enormously interested in some activity going on near the bar. I tapped my toes to the music, snapped my fingers, and even attempted some chair dancing. I mindlessly sipped at the drink that quickly became melted ice and eventually an empty glass.
Along with purse-duty, I also had the responsibility of guarding the chairs around the table. Many attempts were made by other clubbers to commandeer the empty chairs. “No, someone is using that chair,” I snapped. “My friends will be back in a minute.” Finally, after I realized that I was behaving like a rabid Rotweiller, I conceded to a couple. “You can use them until my friends come back.”
The woman gave me a “Yea, sure” and chuckled as she and her new friend proceeded to sit down. It didn’t take long for them to forget that I was there. They began to perform hands-free tonsillectomies on one another. I sat there, the purse-lieutenant, and attempted to ignore the foreplay that is happening just two feet away.
After about an hour, a man approached the table. He introduced himself as Jim and asked me if I would like to dance with him. I wanted to, but I simply could not. I was on purse-patrol. Abandoning my post would have been met by the social equivalent to a court martial. Jim was forced to make the decision to either, accept the apologetic “no” and walk away or sit down to converse with me. With a look of defeat on his face, Jim looked around the room, shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Oh, what the hell…” and sat down.
I was having trouble focusing on our conversation because I was trying to catch the eye of one of my friends. I tried waving my hand at her. I tried staring at her. Finally, I attempted to telepathically connect with one of them. I hoped that she would feel compelled to relieve me of my post. No luck. Once Jim realized that I was not going to be excused from purse-duty, he excused himself and left.
I felt defeated. I decided that I now hated the people who assigned me to purse-duty. And, as soon as I had the opportunity, I would give them a piece of my mind. Suddenly, one of my friends, Karen, approached the table. I perked up. I smiled wide, hoping that her feet were tired from two hours of dancing. But, the purpose of her visit was only to reapply her lipstick. Then she announced that she was going outside to grab a breath of fresh air and that she would be back in a minute. Yeah, sure. Every so often, my other friends glanced over and waved at me from the dance floor.
All hope of having a conversation with anyone other than with the busboy was gone. The “lovers” who were borrowing the chairs, had by now moved onto the button fiddling, caressing and moaning portion of their evening. They were now practically sitting on top of one another and had freed up a chair.
I sat there and casually looked around the room. I wasn’t really focusing on anything but it was something to do. I rocked back in the chair a few times. Checked my watch. During the next visual sweep of the room, my eyes settled on the purses that were on the table in front of me. “Hmm,” I thought. “I wonder what’s in there.” I rationalized, “I have the right to know what I’ve been asked to guard with my life.” Besides, I was bored.
I looked around the room again and quietly reached for the clutch bag. The clutch bag belonged to a longtime friend, Karen, who was on a constant, unrelenting search and conquer husband-finding-mission. Because the clutch was so small, I didn’t expect to find much. I was just going to take a peek. In addition to a redder-than-red lipstick, a comb and a kissing-fresh breath spray, I unraveled the continuous roll of twelve condoms. Wow, someone certainly is optimistic, I thought. I can understand one, possibly two, perhaps three, that is, if he’s young and sober. But, a dozen? Whoa! Go girl! I tucked everything back into the clutch and replaced it on the table.
Still, there was no sign of “my friends.” I would continue my purse inspection. The next item of inspection would be the Barbara’s backpack. Barbara is known to her friends as “Ever Ready,” the woman who could be ready for anything at anytime. Spontaneity seemed contrived compared to Barbara’s “whatever” attitude. The backpack was heavy. When I unbuckled, untied, and unsnapped the flap, I found a cell phone, make-up, a Swiss army knife, comfortable shoes, safety-pins in a variety of sizes, a scarf, pantyhose, a simple yet classic black dress, a highway flare, a travel toothbrush and a package of trail mix. Barbara isn’t out for the evening, she’s running away from home.
Finally, I dragged Marcia’s bag across the table by its ornate shoulder strap. When I unhooked the clasp of the purse, an artillery of anti-man paraphernalia was uncovered. I was reminded of the Viet Nam documentaries I had seen on PBS. I found a canister of pepper-spray, a personal alarm (push button activation) and a key chain with a self-defense baton, and a small flashlight with a whistle attached to it. I carefully checked the side pocket for a hand-grenade. I was expecting the Leslie Stahl and a 60 Minutes camera crew to appear and interrogate me. “Can we ask you a few questions regarding concealed weapons?”
I would, of course, act shocked. Leslie and a cameraman would chase me as I ran to my car. I’d pull my jacket over my head in an attempt to hide my face. No doubt, they would catch up with me when I arrived at my car only to find that I had locked the keys in it. I’d be forced to cover the camera lens with my hand and recite the customary, “No comment.”
The evening had dragged on for what seemed to be an eternity. I had had enough time to evaluate every person in the club, determined what they did for a living, and how much money they made. I also figured out which men lived with their parents’, who was cheating on a spouse and who was out just for sex. By the time my friends were ready to leave, I had worked myself into a major tizzy because I had been ignored for several hours. I was furious.
Karen, Marcia and Barbara were giddy. They were waving around business cards and crumpled paper napkins that had telephone numbers written on them. They hardly noticed that I was seething.
During the car ride home, Barbara looked at me and said, “Wasn’t that fun? Did you meet anyone?”
Even though I had mentally prepared an lecture about the responsibilities of friendship that would, no doubt, leave my friends reevaluating their behavior and begging for forgiveness, I kept it to myself. I realized that I was just irritable because I was forced to take my turn at purse duty.
“I met Ivan, the busboy,” I said, “but he works nights and weekends. It just wouldn’t work out. So, we decided to just be friends.”
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Movies a la Carte from The Grumbling of a Chronically Single Woman, by Randi Sherman the author of Paula Takes a Risk
Movies a la Carte
At the last minute, one Friday evening, I decided to go see a movie. I knew that I wouldn’t be giving them much notice, but I called a few friends to invite them to join me. When I telephoned, the friends who were at home had already made plans for the evening. I looked at the clock. It was getting late. If I wanted to get to the theater in time for the coming attractions I had to abandon the idea of a movie companion. So, I grabbed by coat and left for the theater. No big deal, I thought. I’m just going to be sitting in a dark room, watching a film, quietly. It wasn’t as if I was going to the theater to have a heart-to-heart conversation with a long lost friend. I was going to see a movie, plain and simple. I could do that alone.
I had a slight twinge of insecurity while I waited in line to buy a ticket. I was surrounded by handholding couples and groups of teenagers who all looked at me, standing alone, as if I had just been crowned Miss Social Pariah, 2012.
The pitying looks continued as I stood in line at the snack bar. I had convinced myself that people were whispering behind their hands and looking at me out of the corners of their eyes. “She her. Over there.” They motioned with a head-nod. “She’s alone. Tsk-tsk. What a loser.” When I made it to the snack counter I considered ordering two popcorns and two drinks, just to throw them off.
I know it was paranoia but I felt as if all eyes were on me when I entered the theater. All I wanted to do was sit down and blend in. Within thirty-seconds, I had become completely self-conscious. When I found a row that had a few empty seats, I quickly shuffled in to sit down. In an effort to make it look as if I was saving a seat for my date while he was in the bathroom or at the snack bar, I put my coat over seat next to me. To keep up the illusion, every few minutes, I would turn around and look back at the door.
I tried to kill time until the movie started. I rummaged through my purse, rearranged my wallet, ate most of my popcorn, read the movie theater brochure that I had picked up in the lobby, and played the riddle game that was being displayed on the screen. I looked at my watch. I checked the door again. Then I noticed the child who was standing on the seat directly in front of me. He was turned around and facing me. He was just standing there looking at me.
His look turned into a stare. An unending-unblinking-see-right-through-to-the-soul stare. It began to make me uncomfortable. What did he see? I looked down. I looked up. I looked at my nails. I looked at the door again. I tried to ignore it as long as possible. Finally, I stared back. I scared him. His eyes welled up with tears. He whispered something in his mommy’s ear. She shifted her position to get a glimpse of me. Uh-oh, here it comes. I was certain that she was going to turn around, wag her finger, and give me a piece of her mind. But instead, in a voice intended to be loud enough for me to hear, she started to explain what was wrong with the mean lady behind him.
“Ignore that lady. She’s alone. She probably has no friends who want to be with her and must be very unhappy. Leave her alone.”
I shrank. Is that how I’m perceived? After a minute or two of self-examination, I realized that I was reevaluating my entire existence because the parents of a four-year-old boy hadn’t taught him that staring is impolite.
As the lights started to dim, I could sense the pity from the people who were seated around me. I had to think fast. To save face, I looked back at the door one more time and said loud enough for others to hear, “I wonder where he could be. He’ll never find me in the dark.” After my subtle announcement I gathered together my snacks, my purse, and my jacket and walked up the aisle toward the door to make it look like I was going to find him. I walked through the swinging doors, crossed to the other side and came back into the theater through the other set of doors. Shrouded by the darkness, I walked slowly down the aisle, found a single seat and sat down.
The woman who was seated next to me leaned over and said, “I’ve been waiting to see this movie. It’s supposed to be good.” “Me too.” I agreed, “I …”
Suddenly, we heard, “Shush!” from the man behind us. “If you wanted you socialize, you should have stayed home. Now be quiet and watch the movie.”
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
Gym-nausea - from The Grumblings of... by Randi M Sherman, the authorof Paula Takes a Risk, Available 2012
Gym-nausea
It has been said that getting to the gym is half the battle. I view the whole gym experience as a test of courage. The benefits of working out should outweigh the hand to hand combat with an exercise bra or the risk being killed in a stampede of people who want to get closer to the mirror. I want to be healthy and fit, but I’m not willing to get into a chick-fight over who got to the treadmill machine first.
I’m the type of gym-goer who will circle the parking lot for twenty minutes until a space close to the door is available. It’s considered a successful gym experience if I make it through an entire workout without the need for recitation.
When I arrived at the gym, I headed for the locker room to change into my exercise togs. Making my way through the steamy room that was filled with naked women and high pitched hum of hair blow dryers, I located my assigned locker. It was a narrow opening in the wall that was designed to hold a maximum of one set of keys, a gym membership card and a wire hanger if its placed in the vertical position. Across from the lockers and bolted to the floor are balance beams that are supposed to be used as benches. I knew that if focused my concentration on balance and form, I could make it through the entire dressing routine and land a clean dismount. After which, I would jump up, arch my back and throw my hands in the air to await the judges scores.
It was time to change into my brand new gym-appropriate apparel. The activity of putting on these clothes is an exercise in itself. I thought of employing the assistance of a larger, stronger gym member to “spot” me while I squeezed into the rubber band that had been fashioned as an exercise bra. The first step was to identify the front of the bra. I took a deep breath and with all of my upper body strength, I stretched the elastic around my wrists and wrestled it over my head and shoulders, taking care not to dislocate a limb or pull a muscle.
Once the bra was in place, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I adjusted my breasts to a level position and tucked any noticeable back-fat and excess lateral-chest-bulk under the elastic. I was hopeful that the red marks from the struggle would soon fade. At that point, I was a little light headed and needed to sit down, catch my breath and eat a mocha flavored energy bar.
There are two main styles of exercise bras. One type is more utilitarian than the other. The first presses the breasts so flat that by comparison, a mammogram seems comfortable. It binds the breasts so close to the chest that they are, not only immobile, they are no longer distinguishable. The other style of exercise bra is more fashionable. It supports and lifts the breasts to give them a fuller perkier appearance. Depending on the adjustment, this bra can lift the breasts so high that they might impede vision and range of motion. With the proper adjustment of this bra, the cleavage could be used as a hands-free water bottle holder.
Next, I tackled the spandex shorts. Could they be any smaller? Off of the body, they look like a pair of Capri pants from Barbie’s summer wardrobe. Once on the body, they look like sausage casing. Using maximum shoulder and arm strength along with the contraction of my abdomen and butt muscles, I yanked and pulled the shorts up my body. So much for my upper body workout, I thought. Once the shorts were in place, my thighs begin to swell out of the bottom. And above the waistband, don’t ask. The excess skin and weight around my mid section, made it look as if my spandex shorts had had an atomic explosion. I covered it all with a giant T-shirt and headed out to the circuit training equipment.
The most daunting piece of equipment in the gym is the scale. Why is the scale located in the middle of everything? I broke into a sweat as I approached. Weighing myself has never been as simple as just stepping on the scale and sliding the balance weights to the “you-weigh-this-much” position.
No matter how lethargic or sluggish I was, the fastest and most coordinated maneuver that I made in the gym was stepping on the scale, measuring, and then stepping off of it without leaving any evidence of my true weight. I have developed a highly choreographed routine for using the scales at the gym. I call it the “step-measure-sigh-step-slide.” Here’s how I do it. I concentrate on my breathing as I scan the room to see who is standing within eye-shot of the scale. In one fluid motion, I step onto the scale, manipulate the balance weights, suffer from massive depression and then step off again. While stepping off, I simultaneously slide the balance weights back to the zero position. If by chance, I draw attention to myself with either a misstep or a whimper, I force a smile, wipe the tears from my eyes and announce, “Weight doesn’t matter to me. It’s the tone and muscle mass that I’m concerned with.” If pressed, I may say that I’m retaining water. If the gym-goers are still not convinced, I resort to the explanation, “I’ve been constipated for a week.”
The “regulars” at the gym are very territorial. It is not a good idea to break into their circuit routine. I innocently approached the Butt Buster device. I was just about ready to adjust the weights on it, I heard a high-pitched voice. “I’m using that machine.”
I looked at the machine. I didn’t see anyone. Was I hallucinating? After all, my new exercise bra was very tight and might have been limiting the blood supply to my brain. Then I heard the voice again, “I said, I’m using that!”
I looked once more. Still, I saw no one. Gee. I thought, This woman is very thin. I can’t even see her.
From the lounge area, across the gym, I heard the voice again. “Hey, I’m talking to you.” I was startled. I looked up and saw what appeared to be a walking make-up counter with a hair scrunchy, and a butt thong waving her arms, shooing me away from her machine. “Don’t touch it! I have the weight and height set just right. I’m just resting for a minute. I should be done in a few minutes. Geeze.” Then she looked me up and down, rolled her eyes and returned to her power drink.
While examining the bruising on my body that was caused by the elastic of my exercise clothes, I was nearly trampled to death by a herd Neanderthals who were jockeying for position in front of the mirror. I stood there in amazement. I realized that mirror-posing is a serious business. Evidently, once the right pose is selected, the posers are required to gaze at their reflections with love and affection. They appeared to be flirting with themselves. “You’re so big and strong, handsome and courageous.” And that’s just the women.
Among the various gym-goers, there are those people who go to the gym just to be seen. They don’t seem to exercise at all. It was impossible to use several machines because they were being used a nightclub. Clicks of the beautiful people were hanging over and leaning against the equipment while flexing, flirting and making dinner plans.
I approached the leg-lift machine where a woman was sitting. She was talking into her cellular telephone. She held up her hand to let me know that I was interrupting her conversation.
I decided to skip the weight training portion of my workout. I went to the cardiovascular area only to find a group of women who had set their treadmills on browsing-speed. They strolled along for about thirty minutes.
As I stood there waiting, I looked around the gym. My attention was drawn to a group of red-faced men who were grunting and groaning as they lifted weights. Call me naive but, if something is so heavy that is could cause a hernia or an exploding aneurysm, put it down.
There was a height-weight chart pinned to the wall. Upon examination, I realized that I am five inches too short for my weight. I became depressed and decided to go home.
Later, I laughed to myself when I realized that fashions and the idea of beauty are forever changing. I figured that ten years from now, the height-weight chart would be completely revised. After extensive studies regarding the benefits of potato chips and glazed buttermilk donuts, scientist will discover that we were all fifty to one hundred pounds under weight. Spandex will be outlawed. It will be declared that the massive consumption of green leafy vegetables coupled with exercise, energy bars and butt thongs will have contributed to the early death of hundreds of thousands Americans. And because of the limited amount of fabric necessary to make clothing, less textiles and fewer garment workers will be needed. Which will result in the crippling of the U.S. economy.
An hour had passed. I had gone to the gym. Although, I never actually worked out, I did get points for going. I had determined the future trends in beauty, healthcare and the economy. I had worked up quite an appetite. It was time for a snack.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
My Body Revolted from Grumblings....by Randi Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012
My Body Revolted
The other morning while taking a shower I felt something very strange on the back of my legs. I had never noticed it before. It wasn’t the cellulite. I had grown used to that. It was something different. I quickly got out of the shower to look in the mirror and investigate. In order to get a good look, I stood on my toes with my back to the mirror and twisted my upper body to see the reflection. What could it be? I wondered. At first I didn’t see anything unusual. I reached down to determine exactly where the strange growth was. When I had identified the area, I looked again. I was horrified when I realized that the large growth was my butt. How did this happen?
Without warning, the combination of fatty foods, sugar and gravity has taken its toll on my body. My body was rebelling. It was revolting. My rear end had silently crept downward and taken up residence on the back of my thighs. I was a victim of ass-creep.
Sure, I had noticed that my clothing had become a little snug. The excess weight around my hips and stomach filled my pants to cause the uncomfortable short-crotch syndrome and the binding waistband fold-over. But I attributed it all to the bloating that is related to PMS. Over time, I had managed to convince myself that I was pre-menstrual for twenty-three days each month.
I sat down at the kitchen table and while eating a blueberry muffin with butter and jam, I decided that I had to do something about this new development on the back of my thighs. I finally had to admit that I was out of shape and had gained weight. I figured, I’ll just start on an exercise program and watch what I’m eating. Easier said than done.
The first plan of action was to remove all junk food from my house. As I was removing all of the cookies and pretzels from the pantry and the ice cream, fudge sauce, and frozen pizzas from the freezer, I thought about how wasteful I was being. In my mind, I could hear my mother’s voice, “What about all of the children who are starving all over the world?” I felt guilty. So I decided to do my part. I sat down and made a feast of it all. It was reminiscent of the Last Supper. A religious experience. No waste. I felt better.
Next, I had to locate my gym membership card, buy new exercise togs and figure out the best time to go to and work out. I had been a member of the gym for two years and had managed to get there only twice. The first time was the day that I had signed the membership contract. The second time was the day after that. The monthly membership dues were automatically withdrawn from my checking account. By my calculations, each of my visits to the gym cost approximately three hundred dollars. The one time I called to cancel my membership, I was completely intimidated by the gym manager who ended up convincing me to keep my membership and take advantage of the state-of-the-art equipment. Although I assured him that I would get into an exercise régime, I thought seriously about closing my checking account and changing banks in lieu of justifying my laziness. But I was too lazy to go to the bank.
Finally, I knew that I wasn’t going to get in shape overnight, so I had to have an interim plan. I’d have to go shopping. I’d have to buy some shirts that were long enough to cover my rear end.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The New Minority from Grumblings....by Randi Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012
The New Minority
Sixty years ago, if a woman in her late thirties and forties was unmarried, she was labeled a spinster, a maiden aunt or an old maid. Stereotypically, she was perpetually high-strung and cranky. She was doughty, sad looking and prematurely gray. Her white patent leather handbag was always tightly clutched, with both hands, against her chest. She wore sensible shoes on her feet and her hair in a bun or a hairnet. She owned ten cats that she referred to as her children. She spent her Saturday afternoons rolling ace bandages at the Red Cross or had tea with the widows in the neighborhood. If she did in fact have a job, she was a schoolteacher or librarian. She was an old age companion to her aging parents and the reliable babysitter for her nieces and nephews. Besides, what else could she possibly have to do with her weekends?
Twenty years ago an unmarried woman was labeled as selfish, buried in her career or on the fast track. She wore dark, severe, androgynous looking business suits with pressed cotton blouses and creatively tied scarves. She attended power lunches. Saturdays and Sundays were spent doing the work she had brought home from the office. Weekend evenings were spent with either a dull, equally ambitious man or at the discotheque where she would meet up with various one-night stands, who she would cast aside because any personal involvement would hinder her career path and goals. The popular belief was that she was just confused. Her priorities were screwed up. But there was hope for her. She would eventually “snap out of it” and settle down into marriage as soon as the right man appeared in her life.
For the first time in history, there is a considerable population of unmarried women who have, in one way or another, managed to remain single throughout their twenties and thirties and beyond. Consciously or subconsciously, they have broken “the pattern.”
“The pattern” is the official, unwritten, and outdated, rule of female progression in society. The elements of this pattern include attending school, perhaps starting a career, landing a husband, bearing children and moving into a ranch style house that is located within twenty miles of her parents.
Similar to many other minorities, the people outside of it, do not understand the rituals or life style. Face it, the unknown makes people feel uncomfortable. The minority is considered questionable and often criticized. So, based of what the pattern-ers have come to believe, along with their lack of personal experience, members of the minority are labeled unconventional and irreverent and thus: unhappy or social failures.
With our shoulders squared, we, the minority, attempt to defend our choices and lifestyles. The pattern-ers may appear to be listening and trying to understand us, but our efforts are dismissed. They have already labeled us in an effort to justify to themselves, the minorities situation.
“She has buried herself in her career. Her priorities are screwed-up”
“She must be a difficult person. She’s hard to get along with.”
“She’s selfish. All she thinks about is having fun.”
“She’s too picky. Who does she think she is? She needs to lower her standards.”
“She bitter from past relationships.”
“She must be gay.”
We, the members of the minority, are not different from anyone else. We work and support ourselves, pay our bills and attend social events. We require air, water, respect and love. We dread holiday season family get-togethers where, without subtlety, we are interrogated about why we don’t just settle down and get married like normal people.
“Why do you choose to live this way?”
“What is wrong with you?”
“What am I supposed to tell people?”
I am in my late thirties, unmarried and yes, a functional member of society. I am a proud member of this new minority. There is not any great mystery about why I’m single. No federal or anti-social crimes have been committed. Call it timing. Call it circumstance. I simply have not met anyone who I want to marry or who wants to marry me. I just haven’t run across anyone who deserves the punishment. Besides, I’ve been busy.
Years from now, the members of this minority will no longer be unique. Those of us who endured the sarcastic comments, prejudices, and criticisms will be considered trailblazers. During future holiday celebrations, sitting by the fire, we will gather our nieces, nephews and our own late-in-life children who will sit mesmerized as we tell our stories of single life in the late twentieth century and recount our early struggles as the pioneers of the new minority.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
An Invitation for Dinner from The Grumblings of a chronically single woman by Randi M Sherman Author of Paula Takes A Risk due out March 2012
An Invitation for Dinner
Many people assume that just because I live alone and appear to be healthy and well fed, I must know how to cook for myself. At best, my talent for cooking is embarrassing, if not dangerous. Every time I have attempted to prepare a meal or an oven related snack, it has ended up being a disaster. The smoke alarm is a common sound emanating my home.
At first, I thought that the smoke detectors in my house were overly sensitive, and reacted from the slightest signs of exhaust from the kitchen. But after I had moved my residence two or three times and each of the smoke alarms were still set off every time I approached a heating mechanism, I realized that the problem must be my cooking techniques. For a while I refused to give up my attempts at cooking. I figured that if I cooked really fast, I would not give the smoke alarm enough time to detect that I was in the kitchen. But that didn’t work. I began using the smoke alarm as a cooking timer. I would begin preparing some food, and when the alarm sounded, I knew that it was time to flip it over and continue cooking for an additional five minutes. Fearing for my life and the buildings adjacent to mine, friends and neighbors began pleading with me to give up my attempts at learning how to cook. I conceded.
I have learned that there are three things that every unmarried non-cook should have in order to avoid starvation: a microwave oven, a car, and friends who cook.
The microwave oven is the only appliance in my kitchen that doesn’t have to be dusted. This kitchen-wonder can save a person from starvation in less than eight minutes. Its response is faster than that of a 911 emergency call. I have found that the only skills I need, in relation to the using my microwave, are the abilities to peel back a corner or pierce the plastic film with a fork. Pop the container into the microwave oven, set the timer, press start and then Voila! Dinner is served.
Occasionally my body revolts against all of the salt and preservatives that are contained in freezer burned, re-heatable, eight-minute entrees. I’m pretty sure that, by now, I have developed a shelf life of my own. When the puffiness and bloating from Propyl Gallate and Modified Food Starch start taking a toll on my body, that’s the time when I turn to my car for assistance.
Either, I leaf through the take-out menus on my desk and place a call for food delivery or simply climb into the driver’s seat of my car, start the ignition, point the car in the direction of a fast food restaurant and drive on through. It’s always important to order a salad for roughage, and for good measure. Dressing on the side. I realize that this may not be the healthiest way to eat, but at least it’s hot and it does not require clean up.
Truly, the best gift an unmarried non-cook can receive is not a cookbook but an invitation for dinner. After months of eating out, driving through, ordering in and microwaving restaurant leftovers, a friend’s invitation for a home cooked meal is a welcome one.
A well timed telephone call or surprise drop in visit can elicit a sincere dinner invitation where some, if not all, of the basic food groups will be served. The meal is served on normal dishes with actual silverware. Not microwaveable, throw-away cookware and plastic eating utensils. No greasy paper bags and crumpled napkins. Oh, the thrill. Don’t misunderstand me, this is not a manipulation of my friends’ good nature and hospitality. They are all aware of my culinary handicap. Besides, they’re genuinely concerned for my health.
I thank the heavens for friends, their generosity and their cooking skills. Friends’ who cook usually fall into one of two categories. They are either married and are preparing dinner for their families anyhow and would enjoy some outside stimulation from a dinner guest. Or, they are single, enjoy cooking, and welcome a dinner companion.
To ensure a second or third invitation, I, as the dinner guest, display proper manners and gratitude. I offer to clear the table and help with the dishes. I try to monitor the hostess’ level of exhaustion, in an effort to leave before I overstay my welcome. To show my appreciation I keep a supply of wine, (along with decorative gift bags, gift tags, and a felt tip pen) in the trunk of my car to be offered as hostess gifts. And, I’m nice to their cats.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Movies a la Carte - from Grumblings.... by Randi M Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012
Movies a la Carte
At the last minute, one Friday evening, I decided to go see a movie. I knew that I wouldn’t be giving them much notice, but I called a few friends to invite them to join me. When I telephoned, the friends who were at home had already made plans for the evening. I looked at the clock. It was getting late. If I wanted to get to the theater in time for the coming attractions I had to abandon the idea of a movie companion. So, I grabbed by coat and left for the theater. No big deal, I thought. I’m just going to be sitting in a dark room, watching a film, quietly. It wasn’t as if I was going to the theater to have a heart-to-heart conversation with a long lost friend. I was going to see a movie, plain and simple. I could do that alone.
I had a slight tinge of insecurity while I waited in line to buy a ticket. I was surrounded by handholding couples and groups of teenagers who all looked at me, standing alone, as if I had just been crowned Miss Social Pariah, 1999.
The pitying looks continued as I stood in line at the snack bar. I had convinced myself that people were whispering behind their hands and looking at me out of the corners of their eyes. “She her. Over there. ” They motioned with a head-nod. “She’s alone. Tsk-tsk. What a loser.” When I made it to the snack counter I considered ordering two popcorns and two drinks, just to throw them off.
I know it was paranoia but I felt as if all eyes were on me when I entered the theater. All I wanted to do was sit down and blend in. Within thirty-seconds, I had become completely self-conscious. When I found a row that had a few empty seats, I quickly shuffled in to sit down. In an effort to make it look as if I was saving a seat for my date while he was in the bathroom or at the snack bar, I put my coat over seat next to me. To keep up the illusion, every few minutes, I would turn around and look back at the door.
I tried to kill time until the movie started. I rummaged through my purse, rearranged my wallet, ate most of my popcorn, read the movie theater brochure that I had picked up in the lobby, and played the riddle game that was being displayed on the screen. I looked at my watch. I checked the door again. Then I noticed the child who was standing on the seat directly in front of me. He was turned around and facing me. He was just standing there looking at me.
His look turned into a stare. An unending-unblinking-see-right-through-to-the-soul stare. It began to make me uncomfortable. What did he see? I looked down. I looked up. I looked at my nails. I looked at the door again. I tried to ignore it as long as possible. Finally, I stared back. I scared him. His eyes welled up with tears. He whispered something in his mommy’s ear. She shifted her position to get a glimpse of me. Uh-oh, here it comes. I was certain that she was going to turn around, wag her finger, and give me a piece of her mind. But instead, in a voice intended to be loud enough for me to hear, she started to explain what was wrong with the mean lady behind him.
“Ignore that lady. She’s alone. She probably has no friends who want to be with her and must be very unhappy. Leave her alone.”
I shrank. Is that how I’m perceived? After a minute or two of self-examination, I realized that I was reevaluating my entire existence because the parents of a four-year-old boy hadn’t taught him that staring is impolite.
As the lights started to dim, I could sense the pity from the people who were seated around me. I had to think fast. To save face, I looked back at the door one more time and said loud enough for others to hear, “I wonder where he could be. He’ll never find me in the dark.” After my subtle announcement I gathered together my snacks, my purse, and my jacket and walked up the aisle toward the door to make it look like I was going to find him. I walked through the swinging doors, crossed to the other side and came back into the theater through the other set of doors. Shrouded by the darkness, I walked slowly down the aisle, found a single seat and sat down.
The woman who was seated next to me leaned over and said, “I’ve been waiting to see this movie. It’s supposed to be good.”
“Me too.” I agreed, “I …”
Suddenly, we heard, “Shush!” from the man behind us. “If you wanted you socialize, you should have stayed home. Now be quiet and watch the movie.”
Friday, December 9, 2011
You’re not going to wear that, are you? by Randi M Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012
You’re not going to wear that, are you?
Before attending a class reunion, a small group of college friends convened at my house for hors d’oeuvres and a chance to catch up. Over the years, we had all lost contact with one another. Patty arrived first, followed by Joan and Marci. As each woman entered the living room, we all gave her air kisses, light-non-wrinkling hugs and the once-over. We mentally calculated if she had aged badly, gained weight, or if she had had her nose, eyes, thighs, or boobs reconstructed. Though uncomfortable, we all acted as if we were genuinely happy to see one another.
What do you say to someone who you have neither seen nor thought much about in the past fifteen years? We settled for benign conversation about families and careers. Pictures of children were passed around. Then some of the girls showed pictures of their husbands taken in the early 1980’s when they had hair and muscle tone. At first, all life updates were bright and optimistic. But, as more and more wine was consumed, everyone grew relaxed the truth came out. It’s interesting to note how virtual strangers will discuss the most intimate details of their lives when they are under the influence of Chardonnay and know that they won’t have to see each other for another fifteen years. Eventually, we heard about husbands’ infidelity or impotence or their money problems.
Marci rolled her eyes, “Joe was laid off … again.”
“My husband Gregory and I haven’t had sex in two years. He feels pretty guilty about it.” Joan took another sip of wine. “Frankly, he wasn’t that good to begin with. But, at least, now I get jewelry.”
“That’s nothing” Patty piped up. “You may have heard I divorced Harvey. One day, I came home early from work and caught him wearing my lingerie.” She continued, “I got the kids and he got custody of Victoria Secret.”
Everyone was laughing and seemed to be enjoying themselves. The doorbell rang and I when I opened the door to Janet and Teresa, the mood suddenly grew dark. As they walked in, Janet looked at my dress and said, “Are we early? It looks like you didn’t have a chance to change into a nice dress for the party.” With that said, everyone knew that there was going to be trouble.
Janet had always been the ultimate snob. She had the talent of reducing anyone to tears with just one scathing comment. Janet had grown up as the only child of older, wealthy parents. She had lived a very privileged life and was never shy about to rubbing her wealth and status in the face of anyone whom she had come into contact with. Everyone who knew her was afraid of Janet and never dared to say no to her. During our college days, Janet’s parents had always provided her with a lot of money and had urged her to travel through Europe during school breaks. After knowing Janet for a while, it’s obvious why her parents encouraged her to go away.
We all knew that Janet’s nastiness stemmed from her own insecurities, but we still feared her commentary. Janet could have taken the sport of hurling verbal barbs to the Olympics if only there had been a venue for it. Although it had not been discussed, everyone at the party was hopeful the she had grown out of it.
Teresa had always been Janet’s side-kick, her flunky, her puppet. Janet’s insecurities were only out done by Teresa’s fear of her. Teresa’s function in their relationship had always been to agree with and enable Janet’s behavior.
We all reverted to our youth related awkwardness, and waited silently for Janet to unleash her unsolicited opinions on us. Although she had matured and was no longer outright nasty, she didn’t let us down. As the years had progressed, she had learned to shroud their insults with empty compliments.
“Marci,” Janet said, while looking her up and down. “I see that you haven’t lost your personal flare for style.” She added, “I would have never thought to wear those colors together. You’re very brave.”
Teresa smirked and added, “You’re very daring.”
Marci looked wounded as she glanced down at her outfit.
It was Patty’s turn next. “Even after having all of those children, you’re still brave enough to tuck in your blouse. You go girl.”
“Go, girl,” Teresa repeated and looked to Janet for approval.
Patty moved her hands in front of her stomach as she glared at Teresa and asked Janet what the hell her problem was.
She avoided answering Patty’s question and turned her back on us. For a moment, we were hopeful that Janet had realized how nasty she was being and would apologize. Patty, Marci, Joan and I glanced at each other and smiled. While looking in the mirror that hung over the fireplace, Janet glanced at the reflection of Joan. “I wish I could be like you,” she said and turned to face her. “I have this problem. Unlike you Joan I am continually changing my hairstyle to fit the trends. You have managed to stick with that same hairstyle for what … fifteen years?”
Joan was speechless.
Always the hostess, I remembered that it is impolite to offend a guest in my home, so instead of telling Janet to shut up, I suggested that we sit down, relax and have some cheese.
Janet turned toward me. “So, you’re still single. It must be nice to have the luxury of being selfish. I mean, is it that you never wanted to get married or that you never had the opportunity?”
Bitch! I though. I changed the subject, “Who wants more wine?”
Marci waved her hand and said shyly, “My husband doesn’t like for me to drink.”
Janet looked at Marci in disbelief. “Is he here?” she said sarcastically. Laughter erupted from the other wives. Marci looked down, embarrassed.
Turning her attention back to me, Janet said, “Did you ever think that you would get to be this old and still be single? What do they call someone like you?” She paused, “a spinster?”
“Frankly, I have a great life and to answer your question, no, I don’t think about it.”
“Pity,” she sighed and looked out of the corner of her eye at Teresa.
Pity? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I wanted to lunge across the coffee table and smack her so hard that she would resemble a Picasso painting, but, I remembered one of the rules of entertaining: It is poor form to pummel a guest in your home.
Instead, I took at deep breath and looked at my watch, “I suppose we should get going to the reunion.” We all gathered our purses and stepped out onto the porch. It had started to rain.
“You go ahead,” Janet said as she pointed across the street. “I’ll take Teresa in my new Jaguar.”
“Fine,” I said and the rest of us got into my car.
As I pulled my car out of the driveway, I noticed that Janet was fiddling with the door handle of her car. She had locked her keys inside. Janet and Teresa turned and tried to get my attention by waving at me.
I looked at Janet who was holding her handbag over her head to keep the rain from ruining her trendy hair-do. “Pity,” I said and drove away.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Cocktail Party - from Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman by Randi M Sherman, Author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available 2012
Cocktail Party
When I arrived at my friend’s holiday cocktail party, I looked around the room and realized that other than the hostess, Margaret, there was not a recognizable face in the crowd. I glanced around to take stock of fashion sense in the room and then at the mirror to check my outfit. I realized that once again, I had made the incorrect outfit selection. It doesn’t matter how much planning I do, I have an inexplicable talent of choosing the most inappropriate apparel for any occasion.
If I were asked to select a word that best describes my appearance, I would say pleasant. Although, my looks do not stimulate one’s gag reflexes, I have not been presented any awards for my outstanding beauty and poise. It is inevitable, there is always at least one woman at each party who has the ability to turn the heads of all of the men and generate instant jealousy from all of the women in the room. She is tall and proud and magnetic. She smolders. I would describe myself as the semi-attractive woman who is standing just behind her…holding the coats.
So there I stood, in the foyer. I had a choice to make. I could muster up some faux-party-confidence and begin to mingle. I could attempt to blend in with the décor, sip a drink and hope that a party guest would happen by and engage me in a conversation. I could plant myself near the buffet table and force people to speak with me, or at least say “excuse me,” if they want to get close to the food. Or I could attach myself to Margaret, the hostess, who is, required by the law-of-hosting and etiquette to talk to me, or introduce me into another conversation.
While making my decision, a severe looking woman dressed in all black and who looked like she just stepped away from the Chanel make-up counter at Macy’s, walked up to me and introduced herself as Victoria, “Don’t call me Vicky,” she commanded. “My name is Victoria.”
Whatever you say, Vicky, I thought.
Victoria was obviously killing time with me until someone more stylish was free for conversation. Victoria sipped her martini and lied to me. Yes, lied. I could tell. If I had had a calculator with me and had added up all of things that she said she had accomplished, Victoria would have to be about one hundred and seventy years old. Obviously, Victoria was not privy to the two basic rules of lying to someone at a cocktail party. First, if you choose to lie, make sure there is a recovery, if challenged. “Really, Victoria, tell me more about water skiing on the Dead Sea. I thought it was a sacred place and that speedboats were not allowed there. Who did you get a permit from?” Second, lie to the party-drunk or to someone who is not really listening, and most likely, will not remember anything about the conversation.
When Victoria walked away from me, I joined a small group of people who were politely listening to a man named Neil as he droned on about his “fabulous” career, his incredible office, his importance, and his plans for advancement “in the firm.” No one in the circle seemed interested in what he was saying, but they didn’t want to appear rude and walk away. So we all stood there, helplessly and listened. He was so boring that he should have been forced to wear a warning label. Caution: Use of his man may cause drowsiness.
My eyes began to water when I strained to keep my mouth closed while stifling a yawn. I was tempted to grab Neil by the shoulders, shake him and holler, “No one in this room finds anything at all fascinating about you or your work. Unless you could promise someone a high paying position, that requires minimal work and travel to exotic destinations along with an unlimited expense account, we don’t want to hear about it! Get a hobby!” But instead, I stood quietly, with the rest of the group, until he finished his verbal resume.
A few minutes later, Margaret motioned me over and asked me if I was enjoying myself.
I started to lie, “Oh yes … ”
She interrupted, “I want you to meet someone. Come with me.” She motioned with her finger for me to follow her.
She then introduced me to a man named Michael. He was also alone. He was handsome, intelligent and interesting … and spoken for. About ten minutes into our conversation he announced, “I have a girlfriend who is out-of-state. But you and I could get together for coffee, or something.” Then he added, “Fortunately, I don’t find you attractive so I don’t have to worry about getting myself into trouble.”
What? Fortunately, he doesn’t find me attractive … Was that supposed to be a compliment? Gee, I thought. A girl can’t hear that too many times.
When I went outside for a breath of fresh air, I met Phil. He seemed like a “regular guy.” We spoke for a few moments. He asked me if I was dating anyone. I told him that I wasn’t and asked about his situation. He told me that he was single.
He started, “My last girlfriend was a model … ”
I stopped him right there. I had to know. “Tell me, Phil,” I asked, “Why is it that every man I meet used to date a model? How many models could be out there?” I could never understand why a man would tell a woman about how beautiful his past girlfriends were. Although men may find this information to be fascinating and impressive, women can live a lifetime without hearing it.
I wandered into the kitchen to catch my breath and plan my escape. I looked at my watch. Damn, it was too early to leave. The caterers looked at me with a knowing-look that said, “Sit down, and have a cup of coffee.”
As I sat there in the kitchen, a few other party-goers drifted in. Some of the sat down. Others leaned against the counters, had some coffee, and picked at the desert trays. Before I knew it, the entire party had moved into the kitchen area.
Over all, it had been a lovely party. The food was delicious and guest were very nice but I was ready to leave.
Michael waved over the crowd toward Margaret and announced, “Well, I have to be on my way. I have to catch a plane in the morning.”
That was my opportunity, “Michael, would you mind walking me to my car?” My question was two-fold. It not only gave Margaret the illusion that Michael and I had hit-it-off, it also was my chance to cut out of the party.
Margaret smiled, “Thanks for coming.” As she hugged my good-bye, she whispered, “Call me tomorrow. I want to hear everything.”
“Oh, Margaret,” I said and winked, “nothing is going to happen. If anything, we’ll probably just go for a cup of coffee.”
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