Whats it all about?

PAULA TAKES A RISK, AND SO DOES HER AUTHOR

We all hope for a dream life.  However, most of us are afraid or overwhelmed to make changes necessary to have a beautiful dream life. This is the reality for the lead character in PAULA TAKES A RISK by first time author Randi Sherman.

Paula’s life is a disaster.  She loses her job and boyfriend on the same day, and has no future prospects or plans.  Life just isn’t working out for her.  Having only done what was expected of her, not making any waves, reading celebrity magazines, and believing the dream life is for everyone else but her – she now finds herself lost in her tiny, musty apartment without a clue of what to do.

Life drastically changes for Paula, when she is unwittingly drawn into an adventure by her neighbor Larry, who is broke and deep in debt. She naively goes along with his plans and poses as a successful business woman to carry out an elaborate money making scheme. Too desperate, too afraid and too involved to step away, she lives a lie as she takes on a persona of the person she always wanted to be. Paula blossoms as she navigates her way through complex business and social situations until the whole plan starts to unravel. The scheme and lies are uncovered and what happens next will delight the reader.

This is a story that is certain to strike a chord in anyone who is wishing for a way out of their present life, and on to the red carpet of their imagination, but is afraid of making the change. Author Randi Sherman is a funny woman, with a history of stand-up comedy, her humor keeps the reader hooked throughout this witty and entertaining story. She eloquently achieves taking the seemingly mundane experiences of life and turning them into a laugh a minute.

PAULA TAKES A RISK is available online through www.FriesenPress.com/bookstore, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and to order through most bookstores.

What is Risk?

"To laugh is to risk appearing the fool. To weep is to risk appearing sentimental. To reach for another is to risk involvement. To expose your feelings is to risk exposing your true self. To place your ideas, your dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss. To love is to risk not being loved in return. To live is to risk dying. To believe is to risk despair. To try is to risk failure. But risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing. The person who risks nothing does nothing, has nothing, is nothing. They may avoid suffering and sorrow, but they cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, live. Chained by their attitudes they are slaves; they have forfeited their freedom. Only a person who risks is free." - Ward, William A.

Good-bye Whitney Houston

A true talent lost. Rest in peace Whitney

A little about Paula Takes A Risk

Life just wasn’t working out for Paula. She lost her job, her boyfriend, had no prospects. Her neighbor Larry needed a favor. She naively agreed. Too desperate, too afraid and too involved to step away – creates and lives a lie as she takes on the persona of the person she always wanted to be. Navigating her way thru business and social situations until the whole plan starts to unravel. Their scheme and lies are uncovered. Investigations ensure. The jig is up. And what happens next will delight the reader.

take a look

Take a look at the new website:   http//:www.paulatakesarisk.com

Working on promotion

Hello. Thought I'd bring you up to date on whats going on.  Well PAULA TAKES A RISK is ready and available (about a month earlier than I expected)  - and Im feverishly working on the promotions package with the publisher.
How do you say with humility - Oh my God - PAULA TAKES A RISK is just fabulous and entertaining, laugh out loud hilarious. Love 'em or hate 'em you know every character?

It now availabe @ http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000004536283/Randi-M.-Sherman-Paula-Takes-a-Risk and at www.amazon.com and www.BN.com

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.

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.

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.

Saturday, I was Invisible -from Grumblings...by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Saturday, I was Invisible

 

One Saturday night, not too long ago, a group of coworkers and I went to a trendy club in a trendy neighborhood for some trendy drinks and dancing.  When we arrived at a club, the group dispersed and I was left alone.  I found an empty barstool and sat down.  A few minutes later, a man approached me, smiled and asked me, “Is that barstool taken?”  I looked to my left and to my right.  Both stools were being used.  I looked up to answer him and noticed he was pointing at the stool that I was sitting on.

That’s odd.  I was confused.  “I’m sitting here.”

“Oh.” he said and walked away.

I attempted to get the attention of the bartender.  “Excuse me,” didn’t work.  Waving my hand didn’t work.  Waving a twenty-dollar bill didn’t work.  But when a woman who had tattoos on her neck and glitter in her hair leaned across the bar, grabbed the bartender by the arm and shoved her tongue down is throat, I figured, Well, at least he is within shouting range.  I tapped her on the shoulder and thanked her.  She looked past me like I wasn’t there.

As people passed by, they knocked, pushed and shoved me.  When a huge bald man in a mesh shirt jabbed me in the kidneys with his elbow, I was convinced that I had stumbled upon the tryouts for the World Wrestling Federation. 

After being completely ignored for about a half an hour, I figured it out.  I realized that for all intent and purpose, I was invisible.  So, why not take advantage of my invisible status?  I watched the action around me and realized that everyone was working very hard to gain the attention of others.  I observed overt flirting, solicitous giggling, and animated conversation.

 Since I was invisible, I decided that I had the perfect opportunity to try an experiment.  I spent the rest of the evening trying to get the attention of the visible people by using the techniques that I have always found annoying and distasteful. 

I started a conversation with a man who clearly did not want to talk to me.  He was trying very hard to get away from me.  All he wanted to do was order drinks from the bartender and going back to his girlfriend.

“Hi.” I started.

He ignored me.

“I said, hi.” I waved my hand in front of his face.

“What?”  He seemed annoyed.  “Oh, hi.”

I pressed on.  “What’s your name?” 

He didn’t answer.

“You look like a Bob.” I pushed, “Is it alright if I call you Bob?”

“What? … Whatever.” He leaned over the bar and flagged down the bartender.

“Bob, do you like it here, at this club?  It’s my first time here.”

“Bob?” He didn’t answer.

“Bob … Bob.”  Then in a sing-songy voice, “Bobby, are you ignoring me?” I waved my hand in front of his face again.

“What?” He grabbed my waving hand. “Leave me alone!”

His drinks arrived and he paid the bartender.

I pushed one more time, “Is that for me?” I reached for one of the glasses.

“Hey!” He pushed my hand away.  “Leave that alone! Leave me alone.”  He looked at me like I was crazy and walked away.

Strike one.  Whose next?  I looked around the bar.

There was a group of four very chic looking women, who all looked to be about twenty-five years old.  They were standing in a little circle.  I walked over.  At first, when they sensed that I was there, they just tightened their circle.

“Hi. Have you girls met anyone yet?” 

Nothing.

I tapped one of them on the shoulder.  She brushed off her shoulder, squinted at me and made a “Thsk” sound.

I walked around the circle and stood behind another one of the girls. “Hi.”

She ignored me.  She and her friends rolled their eyes at one another.

Then I broke through, “Boy, you sure look pretty.”

Bing!  She turned, “What?”

“I said that you’re pretty.”

Her friends giggled.

“I’m not into that. So if you don’t mind I’m having a conversation with my friends-”

“I don’t mind.” I smiled wide and continued to stand there.

They closed their circle so tight that they were practically wearing each other’s clothes.

Strike two.  Next victim.

I walked up to a woman who obviously was trying to catch the eye of a man.  She saw me coming toward her and she turned to stone.  She was clearly annoyed by my presence and completely ignored my existence.  She looked past me and over my head.  So I decided to say whatever came to my mind, speak gibberish and use animated hand gestures.  I was curious about how long she would stand there until she would either breakdown and speak to me or just walk away.

“Hi.” I said.  I proudly held my arms out and told her, “ I’m one hundred and thirty years old and I weigh twenty-three pounds.”

She ignored me.

I offered, “I like green eggs and ham.”  I couldn’t help chuckling to myself.

Nothing.

I gestured toward the bathroom and said, using a serious voice, “flippita-yippity-yakka-pippy-pa-poo.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to another and exhaled through her nose.  Still, she continued to ignore me.  She was a pro.

Just as I was about launch into my rendition of the Barney Song, she smiled at a man who was about ten feet away.  She pushed me aside and walked away.

Strike three.

I went back to the bar and looked around.  I noticed that most of the women who were getting attention were very body-aware.  They were rubbing their hands up and down their arms and body and through their hair.  Okay, I thought.  I could do that. I pulled off my sweater, revealing my T-shirt. I continued.  I stretched my neck and let out a little sigh. Then, I rubbed my hands up my torso and lightly cupped my breasts.  That got the attention from the man next to me.  I coyly looked at him.

He looked at my hands, then at my face, “Hi there.”

“Hi, yourself.” I exhaled heavily.

“Do you need any help with that?” he offered as he motioned, with his eyes, toward my chest.

“No thanks” I smiled,  “I’ve got ‘em.”

Just then, the group of people who I arrived at the club with, walked up.  One of them said, “We’re ready to leave?  By the way, we’ve been watching you. You certainly are popular.”

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.

Can you just say no? - From Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman, by Randi M Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Can you just say no?

Most single people involved in the dating scene are familiar with the anxiety that is involved when turning down a date.  Let’s say that you are not interested in dating a particular person.  The phase, “No, thank you” should be sufficient.  But, unfortunately, we feel compelled to attach a reason.  At the first sign of rejection, no matter how benign, the ego kicks in and activates the question “Why not?”  Once put on the spot, most of us choose to lie.  Ideally, it would be a wonderful world if we could turn down dates without having to sugar coat our excuses, without recourse.  “I don’t want to go out with you because your looks are repellant and your personality could be used as birth control”, or “I’d have to kill myself if any of my friends saw us on a date.”  Both refusals are strong, to the point and effective.  Unfortunately, they are also unnecessarily cruel. Let’s face it, it’s difficult to come up with a reason to tell the truth if it is going to hurt someone’s feelings, especially if you plan to call on them in an emergency-escort situation.

If the excuse seems unbelievable, take the hint.  Accept it for what it is.  It is a coward’s attempt at saying, “I don’t want to go.”  If I turn down a date and go to the trouble of fabricating a ridiculous excuse, respect the effort and leave it at that. If I refuse a date for Friday because I have to study for a urine test, do not ask me out for Saturday.

Wouldn’t it be great if there was a list of surefire responses to dissuade, even the most persistent suitor from pursuing the date-issue any further?  I have found that proper use of the following comments will ensure freedom from lengthy, torturous telephone conversations, or worse, miserable dating experiences.

·         My husband prefers that I don’t date.

·         Do you know what a hermaphrodite is?

·         Would you mind if my parole officer tags along?

·         I can’t go because my parents grounded me.

·         I’m moving out of the country tomorrow.

·         I’m glad you called.  Did I leave my penicillin in your car?

·         I can’t go with you on Friday. I’m going through the final phase of my sex change that day and I’ll probably be groggy.  How about Saturday?

·         I’m sorry it took so long for me to answer the phone, I was in a psychotic rage.

·         I have a fear of restaurants and have a tendency to scream uncontrollably in public places.

·         Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight. I just killed a cat with my car and I couldn’t possibly eat the whole thing by myself.

·         I’d love to go out with you on Saturday, but I’ll be on my honeymoon.

·         I’m having a Caesarian section that day.

·         Did I mention that I’m incontinent?

·         That’s fine but the Reverend Mother insisted that I be back at the convent by ten.

·         Would you mind if I brought a gun?

 

Stood up - by Randi M Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Stood-up 

Let’s face it.  Being stood-up is a humiliating experience.  There are basically two types of the “stand-up.”  Private and Public.  The Private “stand-up” is the slightly less humiliating of the two, in that, it usually happens in at home where there is not an audience present to witness it.  The Public “stand-up”, on the other hand, occurs in a public gathering place such as a restaurant or bar where multiple people can pity you as you look at your watch for the hundredth time and glance at the door every time it opens.  In either form, the victim does not necessarily deserve the treatment.  There is nothing unusual or distinguishing about the stand-up victim.  She can be placed anywhere on the scale from drop dead gorgeous to can’t-believe-it-look-again ugly.  She can be brilliant or braindead.  No matter who she is, once she has been “stood up” she will experience the five stages of being “stood up”: Denial, Anger, Despair, Acceptance and Revenge.

Denial

When he doesn’t materialize at the designated time and place, the victim will, first, give him the benefit of the doubt. She will rationalize the situation.  Perhaps he’s having car trouble, parking problems, or stopped to buy flowers.  Perhaps he’s been in an accident and is lying in an emergency room somewhere. She waits patiently, taking care not to wrinkle her date outfit. Perhaps she’s have a glass of wine or two … or five to create the illusion that she had intended to be in that place at that time, alone. She may even call home to check the answer machine. 

After rationalizing all of the possible scenarios, self-doubt sets in.  She wracks her brain.  Perhaps she misunderstood the arrangement.  Is this the right night?  The right place?  More importantly, she focuses her energy on trying to not look pathetic.  After an hour of “I’ll give him just five more minutes,” her denial turns to anger.

Anger

Once she concedes to the fact that the guy is just not going to show, anger sets in.  So, where the hell is he anyway? He had better be lying in a ditch somewhere.  Did this moron ever have the intention to show up?  But wait, is it his fault?  She searches for someone to blame.  What about the so-called friend who arranged this set-up?  She begins planning the torture to be inflicted upon the matchmaker.  Someone must pay for this humiliation!

Despair

When she catches herself seething, she realizes that this is wasted energy and thoughts of self-loathing set in. I’m a loser.  My selection criteria and process is so pathetic that I set myself up for disappointment.  Why couldn’t I see this coming?  No one wants to go out with me anyhow.  I just know that a support group has been formed for the men who need to take twelve steps beyond the experience.  They’re meeting in a church basement right now.

Then the sinking feeling in her stomach sets in.  “Oh no, what am I going to tell my friends now?  Especially now that I have spent the past week telling them how excited I was about this date.”  “I told them that he was crazy about me.”  At that moment, the stand-up victim must decide if she will tell her co-workers the truth or fabricate an elaborate lie about a fictitious date.

Acceptance

She’ll eventually concede to the fact that the date was just not meant to be.  Things could be worse.  After all, she could be sitting there a bouquet of balloons for the man who never showed.  Instead, she could just go home or order another glass of wine and start flirting with the man at the end of the bar or call a good friend to come and meet her.  They could sit there and laugh at the potential punishment she could inflict on the offender.  Revenge is a sweet thought.

Revenge

Revenge is one side of a very thin line.  She doesn’t want to appear psychotic. She will spend time thinking about of the perfect soap-opera-esque thing to say if the opportunity ever presented itself.  She’ll fantasize about delivering the one or two phrases that will leave him wounded and provoke an immediate change in his behavior.

She may choose to call and leave cryptic messages on his answer machine, perhaps demand an explanation. Depending on his level of popularity and her level of outrage, she might make an effort to ruin his reputation.  Unfortunately, most revenge efforts only result in her looking foolish and bitter. But someone must pay! So she calls the friend who arranged the set-up and threatens to submit an invoice for the cost of the date-outfit, the mileage and time.

So another evening bit the dust.  There would be other men, other self- doubts and other dating opportunities.  A lesson has been learned and she would be a victim no more.  The next time, if there is one, she will demand a valuable personal item or an imprint of his credit card as insurance that her date will materialize or face severe monetary penalty.

Pre Sex Mental Checklist from Grumblings... By the Author of Paula Takes a Risck, Available March 2012

Pre-Sex Mental Checklist 

There are occasions when we just don’t know what the end of an evening is going to bring.  Dinner, then a movie, perhaps we holding hands as we walk down the main boulevard and window shop, or a glass of port wine or a cup of coffee in front of the fireplace and a goodnight kiss.  Perhaps the kiss will turn into a make-out session. The next thing you know, buttons are being unbuttoned, zippers are being unzipped, and hooks are no longer connected to eyes.  What happens next? I consider. But, I’m not prepared!  

Sex is great.  Spontaneity is great.  The combination of the two is exciting.  The problem with the “unplanned” is that there isn’t an opportunity to make the appropriate arrangements that are necessary to ensure ease of mind.  So, in a split second, almost subconsciously, I run through our pre-sex mental checklist to determine and hopefully eliminate any stumbling blocks that could effect the outcome of the impending sexual experience.

The Pre-Sex Mental Checklist can be divided into four categories: the essential checklist, body related issues, clothing related concerns, and emotional issues.

The Essential Pre-Sex Mental checklist

·         Who is supplying the birth control?  Is there enough?

·         When was my last menstrual period?

·         Did I shave my legs?

·         Do I have intestinal gas?

·         Do I know his name?  If not, will “Oh, baby” suffice?

Body Related Issues

·         Do my breasts disappear into my armpits when I lie on my back?

·         Do I have any tattoos, piercings, bruises or scars that will require explanation or result in disgust, laughter or pity?

·         When was my last bikini waxing appointment?

·         Are my toenails painted? Or are there just remnants of a pedicure that was done three weeks ago?

·         Do I have any band-aids on my body?

·         Do I have any embarrassing acne or break-outs?

·         Do my joints crackle?

·         Is my nose clean?

·         Is there anything in my teeth?

·         How’s my breath?

·         Do I get severe bed head?

Clothing Related Concerns

·         Do I have too much make-up on?  Will it rub off and ruin the pillowcase? 

·         Will he be frightened when he doesn’t recognize me in the morning?

·         Am I wearing sexy underwear?

·         Am I wearing that underwear?

·         Is my bra worn out, baggy or have wires that may cause injury?

·         Are my shoulder pads being held on by my bra-straps?

·         Am I wearing any clothing that is difficult to remove? (i.e.: pantyhose, tummy control garment)

·         Am I wearing any garments that have tight elastic that, when removed, will leave a red ring around my waist or under my breasts?

·         Am I wearing knee-hi stockings?

·         Am I wearing any jewelry that will cause scratching or choking?

 Emotional Issues

·         Will I stress out over my clothes wrinkling on the floor overnight?

·         Should I keep my jewelry on or is this an all-nighter?

·         Do either of us consider this to be a one night stand?

·         Do I want to see this man ever again?

·         If we are at my house, how do I get him to leave before morning?

·         Am I expecting any phone calls from other men, a member of the clergy, or my mother?

·         If I’m at his house, what excuse will I use to leave before daybreak?

·         What will I say if the sex is mediocre-to-bad?