Poisoned

 

Paul, I thought, was a dream come true.  Everything I had ever hoped for, seemed to be embodied in him.  My heart soared every time I thought of him.  Zing!

Paul invited me to his beach house for dinner.  He was going to cook.  Wow.  When I arrived, fresh cut flowers were on the table, the wine was breathing and mood music filled the air.  I was impressed.  The meal was incredible.  The Cabernet tasted as if the grapes were grown for the soul purpose of creating a wine that would compliment our dinner.  I was being wooed and I liked it.

As we sat there gazing into each other’s eyes, everything seemed so right until I began to ramble.  I couldn’t help myself.  My mind raced as I tried to think of clever anecdotes about myself to impress Paul.  Instead, I blathered on with inappropriate and self-deprecating stories about my childhood pudginess and thick glasses.  Besides, I was trying to picture him naked and was having trouble concentrating.

I was dying for him to touch me.  I executed a combination hand-half-way-across-the-table with an interested lean.  This particular maneuver is extremely difficult to do successfully.  Precise angling, attitude, and timing are essential.  You must lean your upper body inward, at just the right angle (approximately forty-five degrees), while maintaining hand placement and eye contact.  The weight is shifted laterally onto one buttock.  It is crucial that the correct buttock is selected. Optimum head and face placement to receive a kiss is the goal. For maximum benefit, lower the eyelids, part the lips slightly and execute a single heavy inhale-exhale combination. 

Finally, Paul took my hand, drew me close and kissed me.  I nearly fell off of the chair and under the table.  I suddenly felt flush.  My palms got clammy, my heart was leaping and my stomach was churning.  Wait. I began to wonder. Was this supposed to be happening?  Was he the one?

Paul suggested that we go for a walk along the beach.  As we removed our shoes and placed them on the porch, I began to fantasize about the movie, “From Here to Eternity.”  Paul would be Burt Lancaster, I would be Deborah Kerr and the gentle waves would roll over our entwined bodies as we kissed in the surf.

We walked hand-in-hand as the surf rushed over our feet.  Everything seemed so perfect.  The fresh air snapped me back into reality and I realized that my stomach was feeling unusually queasy.  Was it the romance?   No.  It was the dinner.  Nausea began to overtake me.  I felt dizzy.  I started to cramp and broke into a sweat.  Oh no. I tried to think it away.  The gurgling from my stomach and the hot flashes were eventually overtaken by the crashing waves of nausea.  I fell to my knees and proceeded to pollute the ocean in my own special way.

            When I came to, I realized that I was sprawled out and the surf was lapping up my, now ruined, suede dress.  I was soaking wet and covered with sand, seaweed and various non-biodegradable items.  I lifted my head and searched for Paul.  He was sitting on a sand dune about thirty feet away.  When he saw me moving, he stood up and walked toward me.  I was hoping for compassion.  Instead, he was disgusted and angry.

 In a sarcastic tone he asked, “Now, was that necessary? You certainly know how to ruin an evening. I suppose you’re too sick to have sex tonight.”

What?  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  What a Jackass!

Without help from Paul, the king of concern, I pulled myself to my feet.  I stumbled down the beach in an effort to catch up with Paul, who kept pace about ten feet ahead of me.  I felt my body becoming chaffed by the wet suede and sand.

When we arrived at his house, Paul handed me my shoes and told me to wait outside while he got my purse.  He didn’t want me to “drip” on his carpeting.

After receiving my purse, I walked, alone, to my car, as Paul went inside the house, dead-bolted the door and turned out the porch light. He acted as if I had maliciously and intentionally become violently ill in an effort to destroy his sex quota.  Of course, at that moment, I wished that I had.  I felt another wave of nausea come over me.  I desperately looked around for a place to heave.  Then I spotted it.  With my hand covering my nose and mouth, I made a mad dash for the porch.  I took careful aim and then vomited in Paul’s shoes.

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.

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

Yup! It Happened

Paula Takes A Risk is now available through Friesen Press

http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000004536283/Randi-M.-Sherman-Paula-Takes-a-Risk

Log on, read about it - and get a copy - I know you want to.

(Paula Takes a Risk will be available Amazon, and your other favorite distributors in 3-5 more weeks)

The Doctor’s Appointment - from The Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman, by Randi Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

The Doctor’s Appointment 

If you’re like me, the day that you are feeling sick and tired is the day when you want to see a doctor, not four weeks from then.  Why does it seem as if the doctor’s office staff is doing us a personal favor by fitting us into the appointment schedule?

It doesn’t matter what your symptoms are.  Leave the diagnosis to the professionals.  During the initial telephone call, it is Lorraine, the receptionist at your doctor’s office, who will determine the appropriate course of treatment, level of severity, and urgency of the complaint based on the answer to the most important question in medical science. “What type of insurance to do have?”

The last time I had flu symptoms, I thumbed through the book of doctors’ names and telephone numbers that had been provided to me by my insurance plan.  I selected one and called for an appointment.  After twenty minutes of pleading, I was granted an appointment time, and given a homework assignment.  “Bring your insurance card and insurance form, and your co-payment.  Arrive fifteen minutes before your appointment time.” 

I was hallucinating from a fever, but the first thing I was instructed to do entailed a scavenger hunt through my files to find an up-to-date insurance card and form. The faded, rumpled card in my wallet was the “temporary card” and I knew that it just wouldn’t do. I was pretty sure that I had the new, laminated card in an unopened envelope somewhere and the sample insurance form that came with the new employee packet in my filing cabinet.

When I arrived in the doctor’s waiting room, I tapped on the glass that separated the sick people from the office staff.  No response.  What is this about?  I heard voices and could make out figures on the other side.  I spotted the little bell that was just sitting on the ledge, begging to be rung.  Although the hand written index card that was taped to the glass had explicit instructions not to ring the bell, I rang it anyway. Lorraine slid open the miniature shower door and looked up from her subterranean receptionist area.  The expression on her face yelled “WHAT!?”

Apologetically, I reported my name and appointment time. She pretended to look for my chart and pushed a few keys on the computer keyboard.  With a heavy exhale, Lorraine growled, “Just a minute” and slid to glass shut again. 

Should I just stand here?  Go sit down?  I knew that I wasn’t guilty of anything, yet I was nervous.  I’ve had the same feeling while waiting to go through international customs at the airport.

The glass patrician opened again.  “Did you bring your insurance card?”  Lorraine held her hand out.

Nervously, I shuffled through my papers and then handed it to her. 

“I’ll make a copy for your chart.”  Without taking a breath she continued, “Your co-payment is fifteen dollars.  I’ll collect it when you leave.”  She pointed to the waiting area.   “Have a seat.”

When the glass window slid open again, everyone in the waiting room anxiously looked up, hoping that he or she would be the next one called.  When I heard my name called, I proudly perked up.  But, it was a false alarm.  Damn.  I wasn’t allowed to see the doctor yet.  Lorraine gave me another assignment, a pop quiz.

“Here.” She handed me a clipboard with questionnaire on it. “Have a seat and complete both sides of the form, sign it and bring it back to me when you’re done.”   A pen was attached to the clipboard with a string that was so short that it made it impossible to hold the pen upright, not to mention, reach the bottom of the questionnaire.

When I had finished, I handed the clipboard and questionnaire to Lorraine. She reviewed it for mistakes as if she was checking the answers on the written driver’s license test.  She motioned to the chairs behind me and told me to have a seat again. 

Forty minutes later, when Lorraine opened the door to the Promised Land of examination rooms and called my name, my heart leapt.  I nervously replaced the June 1971 edition of Hi-lights Magazine on the table, picked up my purse, and obediently followed her into the back office.  She opened a door, ushered me into a sterile looking room and told me the doctor would be with me shortly.

In order to speed the process along, I got undressed and hung my clothes on the hook on the back of the door.  When the doctor walked into the room and looked at me, his mouth dropped open.  He looked at me in disbelief.  I began to worry.  I must look very sick.

When I asked him why he looked so shocked, he asked me, “Do you know why you’re here?”

Oh my God!  Imagine my embarrassment when I realized that in my feverish hallucinatory state, I had mistakenly made an emergency appointment with a dentist.

 

Lunch with a Demon - from The Grumblings of a chronically Single Woman by Randi M Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

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 restauant.  “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.

Virtual Cocktail Party from Grumblings....by Randi Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Virtual Cocktail Party

 

I enjoy getting together with my friends, have cocktails and dinner, and spending time catching up on the latest gossip. But quite often by the end of a workweek, I’m just not up to the effort it takes to get myself to the restaurant to meet with them.

What am I going to wear? Where are we going to meet?  How much is it going to cost? What if I drink too much?  How would I get home? What about the friends who live in another city or across the country?  I’d like to get together with them.  But it’s not practical to jump on an airplane and fly out of town to have dinner.  Out of necessity and the desire to maintain friendships, I have come up with an alternative method of socializing. It’s called the Virtual Cocktail Party. 

A Virtual Cocktail Party is an alternative to a face to face meeting with those friends that you would love to chat with.  It’s far less expensive and much more relaxing.

Plan your Virtual Cocktail Party.  During the week, inquire about a friend’s weekend plans.  Ask if she would like to have dinner or cocktails on Friday.  Instead of determining which restaurant to meet at, plan to meet on the phone.  Arrange a time. Determine who will be initiating the call.  Make a reservation.  If by chance you are unable to make it to the Virtual Cocktail Party, no one will be left sitting alone in the bar, cursing you for standing her up.

Although, at most restaurants and bars it is frowned upon when a customer dares to show up in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, it’s perfectly acceptable at the Virtual Cocktail Party.  No effort has to be made determining what to wear, which clothes are clean and pressed, or which outfit is the most slenderizing. Wear any old thing you happen to have hanging over the back of a chair. You could fish something out of the hamper or off of the floor.  Feel free to mix seasons.  Wear a silk blouse with sweat pants. No make-up is required. You could even wear a facial mud- pack and a hair net.  Naked is acceptable too.  The idea is to be comfortable.  Rest assured that no one is going to see you.

No waiting.  Seat yourself.  You don’t need to hover around the bar or to be friendly to the hostess in the hope of being seated before breakfast.  No effort is wasted flagging down a waiter.

If part of the restaurant experience for you and your friends includes people watching and providing color commentary about the patrons and fashions around you, there isn’t any reason why you can’t participate in this activity at the Virtual Cocktail Party.  Just turn on the television (same channel).  The home shopping network or an infomercial will provide the perfect background activity and plenty of material on which to “dish.” To accomplish the audio-effect of the restaurant-buzz, keep the volume low.  Feel free to point and talk as loudly as you wish.  There is no worry about being overheard or receiving nasty looks from the people at the next table.

Eat whatever you would like.  Eat as much as you want.  No one is there to judge you or give you a you’re-such-a-pig look if you eat an entire pizza.  Consume a frozen Sara Lee cake. Don’t bother using a fork or removing it from the tin.  Manners are optional at the Virtual Cocktail Party.  Put your feet on the furniture.  Drop food on the floor.  Talk with your mouth full.  Go ahead, lick your fingers, and drink from the carton or the bottle.  If you don’t have a napkin handy, use your sleeve or a dishrag.

The call waiting feature on your telephone or an unexpected doorbell could be treated as if someone has stepped up to your table and interrupted your conversation.  If you have to use the bathroom, simply excuse yourself, put your friend on hold or go together.

You will never have to drive home from a Virtual Cocktail Party.  No time is spent searching your car in the parking lot.  Think of the money you’ll save on parking lot fees and bridge tolls.  Think of the aggravation that is avoided.  No jail time, no attorney’s fees, no DUIs. Have a cocktail or two, or three.  Drink as much as you’d like.  You don’t have to drive home.  You’re already there.  When your cocktail party is over, hang up the phone, turn out the lights and go to bed.

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.

The Debriefing - from Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman, by Randi M Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

The Debriefing 

On Saturday night, I had gone out on a first-date. Foolishly, I had mentioned my plans to a few of my friends.  So when the telephone rang Sunday morning, I knew that I was about to endure a debriefing.  I picked up the phone and said, “Hello.”

“So?” said the voice on the other end.

I recognized the voice and knew exactly what “so” meant.  It was my friend Margaret and she was calling to inquire about my date.  Margaret had been married for over ten years and lived vicariously through the activity reports of her unmarried friends’ social lives.  Although many of my reports are mundane, Margaret allows her imagination to run wild.  Her interpretation of my activities is far more exciting than anyone’s life could possibly be, without ending up in jail or on a real-life-caught-on-tape television show.

I decided to make her work for the information, “So, what?” I asked.

She seemed agitated, “You know why I’m calling.  How was your date last night?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.” I laughed. I paused. “My date?  It was fine.”

“Fine?  What do you mean by fine? I want details.  Where did you go?  What did you wear?  Did he kiss you?”  She stopped herself.  “Oh …” she whispered, “is he there now?”

“No, he’s not here.” Geeze.

She tried again, “So?”

What can you say about a first date?  We had dinner and conversation. It’s always difficult to determine what a person is really like during a first date.  For the most part, everyone is on his best behavior and uses his party-manners. The conversation consists of questions and answers about siblings and hobbies.  Sure, there are slight exaggerations about one’s importance at work and his popularity with his friends.  But as a rule, first dates are pretty much benign. 

“There really isn’t much to report.”  I said.  “He seemed very nice.  We went to an Italian restaurant and had nice conversation.”

“Nice?  What does nice mean?”

“Nice means nice,” I explained.  “If you’re asking if he pulled out a knife and stabbed me then dumped me in a deserted parking lot, no he didn’t do that.  That would be considered not nice.”

“What did you talk about?”  She tried a different angle.

“Oh nothing really.  Just the normal-first-date-stuff, hobbies, interests.  You know, just stuff.”

“Sounds boring.” She sounded disappointed.

“I wouldn’t say boring.  I’d say,” I thought for a moment, “uneventful.”

“Well, did he kiss you?” she asked hoping to for something, anything, to hang on to.

“Mar-gar-et,” I was slightly annoyed by the question.  It fell into the none-of-your-business category, but I answered anyway.  “Sure, yes, he kissed me.” Why did I tell her that? Here it comes … the follow up question.

“Was it a good kiss?”  She came alive.

“I’m sorry, Margaret,” I was about to disappoint her. “It was just a peck on the cheek.”

“Oh.” The wind went out of her sails.  “Do you think you’ll see him again?”

“I don’t know.  If he calls and asks me out again, I would probably go.”

She was completely disappointed and annoyed with me.  “Well, don’t do me any favors.”

What?   Margaret seemed to interpret the report of the uneventful date as a personal affront, a slap in her face.  She didn’t even know this guy.  I was confused.  “Please, don’t be upset.”  I found myself consoling her.  “It’s okay, Margaret, really.  These things happen. There will be other dates.  More exciting dates.”

“Really?  Do you think so?”  She started to feel better.  “If you say so.”

“I promise.” I assured her. 

I think she’ll recover.

CBD (Compulsive Blind Dating) - from Grumblings...by Randi M SHerman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

I Suffer from CBD (Compulsive Blind Dating) 

I’m a compulsive blind dater.  It all started out innocent enough.  You’ve heard it all before.  I was so naïve.  I thought, “What harm could one dinner date do?”  I was certain that I could trust my friends.  After all, would they get me involved with something so potentially damaging?  The first time I was nervous, excited, anxious and frightened, all at the same time.  My friends urged me, “Everyone does it.” They assured me that it was safe and that doing it just once could not be addictive.

I made it though the first time and figured, “No damage done.”  I had decided that I wasn’t going to seek it out but if the opportunity presents itself again, may be I’d try again.  The next thing you know, my friends were approaching me with more and more blind dating opportunities.  Perhaps I appeared vulnerable.  I started to take them up on their offers.  I thought that I was in control of the situation.  I could stop dating anytime I wanted to.   All I had to do was just say no.

It started with just an occasional blind date on a Saturday evening.  But before I knew it, I’d have blind dates booked on both Fridays and Saturdays.  Eventually the activity bled into Sundays and weeknights.  It was a whirlwind.  I was so caught up in the activity that I convinced myself that I was enjoying it.

When my friends started to set me up with the same men for a second time, I realized that it was beginning to spin out of control.  Before I knew it, I had run through their entire supply.  My friends could not keep up with the demand.  They began feeling pressured and avoided the subject of blind dating altogether. 

As the supply dwindled, I became more and more obsessed, almost desperate.  I began calling on co-workers and other acquaintances who I scarcely knew, hoping that they could set me up with a blind date. I’d strike up conversations in grocery check-out lines and hair salons.  I had a whole routine worked out.  I’d mention how difficult it was to meet nice men and that an introduction was the only way to go.  I was hoping that someone would offer up a son or a nephew.  But I was obvious, too obvious. They were onto me.  Mine was an old scam.

By this time, I was desperate.  It made little difference whether it was a lunch date, dinner date, drinks, coffee or just a walk in the park.  It didn’t matter to me.  I needed a fix.

I started to forsake friendships and responsibilities.  I’d turn down opportunities to see true friends on the weekends, hoping for a dating opportunity.  It was as if, I didn’t care about anything any more.  I stopped taking showers for fear that the telephone would ring.  I stayed home from work to practice being spontaneous.  “Oh, a blind date?  I usually don’t … but if you are recommending him … I guess I’ll meet him.  But, I’m not promising anything.”  I started frequenting places where I could strike up a conversation with a-friend-of-a-friend.  Next thing I knew, I was selling my belongings to buy new date outfits.

My family and friends questioned my values and tried to intervene but I saw it only as criticism and jealousy.  What a fool I was.  I had lost track of my friends, my priorities and my self-respect.

I realized that I had finally hit bottom when the people I once loved spotted me out on a blind date with a Star Trek fanatic. I had been so focused on the dating high that I hadn’t noticed that he was wearing a University of Romulac T-shirt and Spock ears.  Up until that moment, I had not realized how low I had sunk.  It was time to seek help.

Fortunately, I have people who love me and that is the reason why I am here today, telling you my story.  Perhaps my story will keep, just one young girl, from accepting that first blind date and spiraling into a life of dating-hell.  Then I have done my job.

Hows my hair? - from Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman by Randi M Sherman, the Author of Paula Takes a Risk,available 2012

How’s my hair?

Waking up and hearing breathing, other than your own, can be exciting, terrifying, or embarrassing.  To confirm your suspicions, you may slowly and quietly reach back to feel for a body lying beside you. Hopefully, you know who it is.  Without moving, use only your eyes to search the room for condom wrappers.  An uneasy feeling sneaks up on you as you tightly shut your eyes to consider the two questions that need to be answered before you indicate that you’re awake.  Was this a good thing? And, how’s my hair? 

No matter what the answer to the moral issue is, whether you want to marry this guy, suffer through coffee and a bagel or ask him lose your number, the hair question must be addressed first.  Sure, morning breath is an issue, but not a priority.  Rest easily knowing that no one wakes up with fresh breath. A quick back-of-the-finger-under-eye rub can minimize the remnants of yesterday’s make-up.  But, a bad case of bedhead can play havoc with the self-confidence and the ability to project a carefree easy-going attitude.

Do not call attention to your level of wakefulness.  If he senses that you are awake, he may want to talk or … something.  You may lose the window of opportunity for hair repair.  It is important to concentrate on your breathing to maintain a sleeping rhythm as you attempt to assess the hair situation. The movement must look as if it’s a part on your waking process. Pretend you’re stretching.  Run your hands through your hair to determine the pillow damage sustained during the night.  Is it salvageable?  Has it gone wild?  Is it sticking up? Do you have a Gumby bump? Is it flat on one side? Can a quick pass with your fingers temporarily fix the damage until you can get to the bathroom for the full inspection and adjustment?

Remember the goal is to avoid having to answer questions such as: What’s going on with your hair?  Or, What happened to you?  Go through you mental checklist. Does he require glasses to see?  Is it possible to make a dash for the bathroom?  How long can I hold my head-position on this pillow?  When all else fails, divert his attention with sex.

Order Food - from: Grumbings.... by Randi Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, available March 2012

Order Food

There are different types of food to order for different occasions.  There is interview food.  That is, during a job interview process, you maybe asked to meet for lunch or dinner. Food is not the reason for the meeting is it just an excuse. In that situation do not order loud food, finger food, messy food or food that requires a lot of attention or effort to eat.  Conversely, there is Super Bowl party food. Loud, crunchy, messy food.  In this situation, the food is equally as important as the occasion.  But what about first date food?

Within seconds of glancing at the menu, I usually spot the meal I would really like to order.  But what is the appropriate thing to order? No matter how self-assured I may be, I don’t want to appear to be a pig.  So, I’ll sit back and allow him to set the standard.

Time passes as I sit there wishing that I had mind reading capabilities to determine what is he going to order.  What if I order more food than he does?  What if I order something too expensive? Oh no! Suddenly, I cringe at the thought of my regular eating habits.  Gobbling down a jumbo burger and a large order of fries, in the time it takes for a traffic signal to change from red to green, or consuming a bag of chips, leftover Chinese food and a few cookies in the eight minutes it takes to microwave my real dinner, could be frightening to the faint of heart. 

Will my food preferences make an impression?  Good or bad?  Is my best bet is to order a salad, something from the appetizer menu or nothing at all?  This tactic may give him the impression that I eat like a bird, that I’m delicate. Who am I kidding?

Many women under estimate the intelligence of the men they date. I have found that most men have, at least, a basic knowledge of bodily function.  They know that human body requires food to sustain life and they do not believe that it can survive on “something light” or just a small tossed salad.  They also realize that it takes more than a small plate of steamed vegetables for a woman to maintain 180 pounds of weight.

The proclamation, “I’m not really hungry” is a lie.  You know it.  He knows it. The only thing you may accomplish with this line is in convincing your date that you must eat like a horse when you are alone, at home. 

The proclamation, “I had a late lunch,” is an insult.  This single sentence informs your date that you made a conscious decision to ruin your appetite and the dinner plans he had made for the two of you.

If your thought is to save him money, forget it.  Men are not impressed by the fact that you are counting their money.

Your date is not going to be impressed with your self-control.  A request for dressing on the side, a lemon wedge or something grilled “dry” is about as intriguing as reporting that you don’t kiss on the first date. 

After a brief study of the situation, my suggestion is: if you are hungry, order food.

'Paula Takes a Risk' - Due out in March 2012
Synopsis:
After thirty-four years of just letting life happen to her, Paula Tenenbaum’s mundane existence was suddenly interrupted. It was bad enough to be fired from her job because she was “average”, but on that same day, she was dumped by her boyfriend for being “un-dynamic.” Somehow, someway Paula needed to make a change. But before she could figure out what her next step would be, her scheming neighbor Larry tapped into her silent desperation and dreams and challenged everything that she believed about herself.

At first Paula is skeptical, but eventually she realizes that she has nothing to lose, as she takes on the persona of the successful, and dynamic individual that she always dreamed of being, navigating thru business, colorful personalities, celebrities and the people that she had adored from a far.

Written with sharp humor, huge personality, Paula Takes A Risk is the hilarious story about the metamorphosis of Paula Tenenbaum, who naively enters into an adventure that changes her life. This is a story certain to strike a chord in anyone who secretly desires change, but is afraid to make it.

Steven and Tiffany from Grumblings.... by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk, available March 2012

Steven and Tiffany

Steven’s participation in the initial telephone conversation pretty much stopped at “hello.”   Perhaps he is not a phone person. I thought. Very economical with his words. It appeared that he didn’t want to be bothered with the task of conversation. I was placated with a lot of um-hums and oh reallys. It appeared to be a weak attempt at appearing mildly interested. I felt as if I was auditioning. Our conversation was interrupted continually by the beeping of his call-waiting service. I became annoyed with this “please hold” stuff.  Each time he returned to our call there wasn’t an apology, an excuse, or a “where were we?”  Nothing. After about the eighth “could-I-put-you-on-hold…I’m expecting-an-important-call,” I hung up. I couldn’t figure out why he called, if he didn’t have time to talk to me. Was he self-absorbed?  Perhaps he was very important?  Frankly, no one is important enough to be rude.

A short time later the telephone rang again. Without giving it a thought, I answered. It was Steven. He invited me out for dinner on the following Saturday. He explained that he could fit me in at around 8:00 PM. Fit me in?! I don’t think so! I declined the invitation, explaining that I was sure that he was a perfectly nice person, but it appeared that he was just too busy and I prefer not to be “fit in” anywhere and at anytime by anyone. 

“Listen,” Steven said, “I’m really not very good on the phone. Please meet me in person.”

It seemed to be an honest plea, so I thought about it and agreed to meet him at his house.

I arrived and was greeted by Tiffany, Steven’s twelve-year-old daughter. A daughter.  A surprise. Where did he find the time? Steven had not mentioned her during our telephone conversation. Come to think of it, Steven had not mentioned much of anything. Tiffany was an average pre-teen girl. She was just beginning to shed the baby-fat, was suffering through the acne years, and was understandably a little self- conscious.  She kept crossing her arms over what badly needed a training bra. Poor Tiffany had about fifteen pounds of orthodontic appliances in and around her mouth.  Puberty was unkind to her.

Tiffany told me that her daddy had instructed her to entertain me while he finished a business call. The floor show consisted of a half-an-hour watching Tiffany empty and re-fill her purse with various pre-teen items: a velcro wallet containing her school ID and public library card. She also had a key ring that held a multicolored lanyard, a mini video game, a rabbit’s foot, a big plastic thing-a-ma-bob and one lonely house key. For good measure and the all-important-purse-bulk, she added a huge pack of chewing gum, a hairbrush, lip gloss, a pad of paper and an assortment of colorful pens.  Just as she offered to play her newest Miley Cyrus CD for me, Steven emerged.

Handsome would have been the understatement of the year. Chiseled, model-type features, and what promised to be a great body under his Armani suit. Hanging from his belt were two beepers, a smart phone and what appeared to be an electric garage door opening device. I didn’t ask.

When he smiled and warmly introduced himself, I forgave our telephone conversation, and the fact that he had taken almost thirty minutes to come out of his office to greet me. Hell! I almost apologized.

Steven had made reservations at one of the most popular restaurants in the city. “Okay,” he said, clapped his hands together and looked past me to his daughter. Tiffany grabbed her purse. Had I misunderstood? Were we taking his daughter on our first date? I convinced myself to be a good sport. I didn’t say anything about it.

Steven asked if I wouldn’t mind driving my car. His was in the shop. I didn’t say anything about that either.

When we arrived at the restaurant, we were greeted by Ginger, the restaurant’s hostess. She spotted Steven and did a sensual neck-stretch, pursed her lips, lowered her eyelids and exhaled with a mild moan. It appeared that she knew Steven…well. He leaned over the hostess podium and whispered something in her ear.She half-heartedly waved at Tiffany. Then she looked at me and made a face that looked like she was smelling garbage. She was a snob-hostess. If asked, she would tell you that she was a highly trained guest placement professional: A customer service coordinator who sincerely believed that the success of the entire food service industry depended on her expertise and cunning in relation to patron positioning. If asked, I would tell you she was a hostess in a restaurant. 

She grasped her grease pencil and began cross-referencing the reservation listing with a seating chart. Planning an offensive attack on a middle-eastern country takes less analysis and consideration. When she located our reservation, she said the customary, “Ah yes, here it is.” With a well-practiced index-finger-follow-me gesture, she led us toward our table. Steven was busy acknowledging other people in the restaurant. Using a controlled head-flick, a combination Hey-there-you-are-finger-point or a “Hey Buddy,” Steven was in his element. Mister Popularity.

Before we sat down, Steven said, “You go ahead. I have to say hello to a few people.” 

Tiffany and I were seated. So far, I had been completely invisible. Even Tiffany stared right through me.

After about twenty minutes, Steven returned. “I apologize for that…some business acquaintances. I’m doing a deal with them … you know … ”

The waiter delivered the menus. “Everything here looks delicious. Doesn’t it Tiff?”  Steven really wasn’t reading the menu. He was scoping the restaurant. He made eye contact with someone across the room and gave him an I’ll-be-there-in-a-minute nod.  “You girls order anything you want. I shouldn’t be long.”

As I watched him walk away, Tiffany looked at me and snickered. I wasn’t a date.  I was a babysitter. I was pissed.

I looked across the room at Steven, who was now enjoying appetizers with his companions. Was I going to take this? Not in this lifetime! Steven’s had made one a major flaw. We came in my car. Who’s the fool now?

There was one small dilemma though. Tiffany. Could I just leave her there?  You bet your ass I could. I grabbed my purse and made my way across the room. Steven didn’t look up until one of his friends nudged him. He looked at my purse, then at the irritate expression on my face and said, “What? You’re leaving?” 

I was amused by his astonishment. “Oh yes! By the way, you may want to check up on your daughter.”

 I turned to leave and Steven jumped up and followed me to the door. When he stopped me, I expected to hear, “I’ll make it up to you” or “Please give me another chance.”  Instead, I heard, “I can’t ignore these people. You’re just going to have to understand.”  

I was amazed.  My mouth dropped open.  “I don’t have to do anything, you asshole! I don’t have to be here. I’m not sure what your plan was but I don’t have to babysit your daughter either.  I’ve got my car and I’m out of here!”  I was pretty proud of myself.  I thought that I had gotten my point across beautifully, perhaps made a life changing impact on Steven.

“Oh.” Steven said stopping me. “Listen, speaking of that, as long as you’re leaving, would you drop Tiffany off at her mother’s house on your way home.”

Tiffany and I ate drive-thru burgers on the way to her mother’s house.

The Breast Man from Grumblings.... by the author of Paula Takes a Risk, available March 2012

The Breast Man

This guy was the king of innuendo. It seemed that every sentence led to his zipper. I guess that I had been so focused on changing the direction of the conversation that it took me a while to notice that his eyes were transfixed on my breasts. I wondered, What should I do now?  Should I cross my arms?  Should I pretend it wasn’t happening?  Or should I politely ask him to stop. 

“Just what the hell are you looking at?” I startled him. 

He knew that he had been caught. It was entertaining to watch him try to regain his composure and search for the words to explain. This was going to be good.

He actually said that he was “jealous” of my blouse. My blouse?  A silk button down number. He had to be kidding. Up until that moment, I thought that he was somewhat “smooth .”

“What do you mean, ‘you’re jealous of my blouse’?” 

Then he did it. He went for the innuendo. He went for the extra credit. He said that he was envious because my blouse was lying against my breasts and that was where he wanted to be. 

Oh brother! In the Excuse Olympics, his performance rated a flimsy 2.5 for delivery, but a 4.5 for creativity; thus, having a combined score far below an acceptable level for advancement into the semi-finals.

He looked up to see if I bought it. Then he read the Oh-come-on expression on my face. We both started to laugh. 

“Listen,” I said, “If you call me tomorrow, I’ll try to set you up with an angora pull over.”

Hello from Randi Sherman, the Author of Paula Takes a Risk, available March 2012

Hi everyone -
I hope that you are enjoying my blog. Please share it with your friends.

Currently Im posting chapters from a book Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman, that I wrote a number of years ago

Here is an opportunity to become familiar with my humor and writing style and look forward to the upcoming Paula Takes A Risk, due out in March 2012.

Read a little about the Author, me - by pressing the tab above.

Learn a little about Paula Takes a Risk - click on book synopsis- above

Also - follow me on facebook and twitter
Thanks
Randi

Chapter 7 -A Reason to Clean - From The Grumbings of a Chronically Single Woman - by the Author of PAULA TAKES A RISK coming out March 2012

Chapter 7 - A Reason to Clean

I was jolted awake by the ringing of the telephone.  I had unfortunately placed it next to my pillow.  I lay down for a short re-date nap for what I thought was just a few minutes. 

“Hello.” I groaned into the receiver.

“Hi!” jumped a voice from the earpiece. “It’s me, Rick. I’m sorry that I’m late.  I’ll be there in about an hour. I hope that you’re not upset with me. Bye.” 

Upset? Huh? Whatever. I shrugged and fell back onto the pillows. Just as I was about to doze off again a thought entered my mind. Oh my God! Rick! What time was it?  I frantically groped for the clock. Where the hell was it? I found it on the nightstand, exactly where I had left it, under a half-slip, a pair of panty hose and a plastic bag from the dry cleaners. It was seven o’clock. I had until eight.

I rubbed my eyes and took a panoramic glance at the devastation that I called home. To me, my house exuded comfort. To anyone else, who had even the weakest grasp on reality, it looked like the aftermath of a natural disaster. What is clean anyway?  It’s all semantics.

Time management skills were essential in order to pull off an often practiced, pre-date ritual. I had just one hour to clean the entire house in addition to the vast cornucopia of other pre-date activities that included showering, outfit selection, dressing and practicing a winning smile while saying “Hello” into the mirror. It would be difficult, but not impossible. I planned to shower and dress last, to insure the minimal post-apparel application hazards including stains, wrinkling and perspiration.

The living room, Oh God! When had I granted permission to do nuclear testing in this room? As I stood there looking for someone to blame, I realized that drastic times, such as this one, called for drastic measures. There wasn’t enough time to sort through the junk that currently hid my furniture. Items that, in the past, may have been considered somewhat important or valuable would now, temporarily, be considered trash. Using a paper bag and a well-practiced forearm sweeping motion over all flat surfaces, I cleared jewelry, and lose change along with fast food containers, magazines, and newspapers. Then I opened the door to the hall closet, took aim and skillfully flung the bag into the corner, next to other bags from dates gone by.

The kitchen would be next. Various dishes, glassware, and other food stained kitchenware were stacked in and around the sink. I was faced with a well- known kitchen dilemma. The dishwasher was filled with clean dishes.  he time factor needed to be considered. There wasn’t enough time to unload the clean dishes from the machine, yet I didn’t have the inclination to hand wash the dirty ones. The solution was obvious. I simply loaded the dirty dishes into the machine with the clean ones and ran the wash cycle again.

When it comes to straightening up, I have always found the bedroom closet to be the single most valuable space in my entire house. When time is of the essence and the bedroom is in shambles, simply and effectively remove all displaced items from the room by incorporating the technique of grabbing and hurling them into the closet.  Shoes, socks, and other end-up-on-the-floor paraphernalia can be effortlessly placed under the bed by using a kicking-scooting motion.

Let’s face it, the bed and its preparation prior to a date could tell a man some or possibly too much about his date. Rumpled, devil-may-care bed prep or fresh sheets with tight hospital corners? The million dollar question. Should I ask the audience?Should I call a friend? I was extremely attracted to Rick and was hoping that he would spend the night. If I chose crisp fresh sheets, would I appear uptight? But, if I chose to bypass the fresh sheet option and we ended up there, would Rick think I was a slob?  I’d be embarrassed. So, I rationalized my predicament. I chose a happy medium. I changed the sheets and folded the bedspread down. The motivating factors behind my fresh sheet decision were my mother’s rules of entertaining: a tidy home and always have something on hand to serve to an unexpected guest. Although, I doubt that my mother considered that her rules would be applied to her daughter’s sex life, they seemed appropriate in this case.

By 7:59 PM the house was clean, the scent of pine was in the air and the latch on the closet door was struggling to keep itself closed. I had had just enough time to get myself ready. I took a final look around. I was pleased with myself.

The phone rang.  It was Rick. “Would it be out of the question to ask you to meet me at the restaurant? I’m afraid that by the time I drove to your house to pick you up, half of the evening would be gone.” He continued, “Besides, I have to get up early tomorrow morning and this way, I can head straight home after we eat dinner.”  

As I opened the door to leave, I glanced around, shrugged my shoulders and kicked over the trash can.