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.

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.

Poisoned - from:Grumblings.. By the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

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, 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 loafers.

Chapter 4 Singles Dance - From: Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman

Singles Dance

 “How are you going to meet anyone if you don’t get out there and let them know you’re available?” is the gnawing chant of every mother whose unmarried daughter has thrown in the proverbial towel on dating. “You’re such a pretty girl with so much personality. You’re smart. You’re funny. Who in his right mind wouldn’t want you?”

When my clenched jaw finally began to relax, it started,  the feared motherly advice and tales of her single days. “When I was a girl…my girlfriends and I would go to the mixers.” (Mixer: a word which describes a social function, youth group picnic, sock hop, USO gathering, singles dance, or commonly known as torture for the reluctant participant). Mom handed me a flyer that said “SINGLES DANCE, Ages 25-45.” Then the pitch, “You should go. I’m sure you could get a group of gals together. You could meet Mister Right or at the very least have a nice evening out.” When I rolled my eyes, my mother’s tone changed. “You’re so picky. You’re going to have to lower your standards. You’re not getting any younger you know.” 

Could she be so wrong? The woman who bore me, raised me, would she steer me wrong?  So I called a few girlfriends. They laughed. I went alone.

When my eyes adjusted to the strobe light and mirror ball I glanced around the room in an attempt to identify my competition. There wasn’t any. Most of the women there were charter members of the Unibrow society. That is, due to genetics and an ignorance of basic beauty maintenance, their eyebrows met at the bridge of their noses and there was no obvious delineation to separate the two. Like their mothers and their mother’s mothers, many of these women stood tall at five feet and had been blessed with enormous rear-ends, thunderous thighs, mountainous bosoms, frizzy hair, and noses that you would have to pay a toll to pass under. I had never felt so beautiful or so tall as I did that evening. After a good look around the room I had come to the conclusion that the dance must have been sponsored by the sister group to Parents without Partners, Single without Choice.

A springtime bouquet of wrap-around cha-cha dresses, and fluorescent ankle strapped pumps lined the perimeters of the dance floor.  It was obvious to me that many of these women were experiencing their first pair of high-heeled shoes. Some of the ladies were limping around. Some were attempting to gracefully stand in one place while shifting their weight from one foot to the other. When I listened carefully, I could hear the chanting of the anti-pain mantra, “I’m not in pain. If I concentrate, I can overcome this crippling agony.” The crackling sound of cheap suntan colored pantyhose rubbing together was deafening as the more aggressive women pushed and shoved each other in an attempt to position themselves in the line of vision of a potential dance partner.  Sparks were bound to fly.

I searched the room for “Mister Right.” He wasn’t there. The selection of men consisted of a few who looked to be about thirteen years old and the rest looked old enough to have known George Burns as a child. If I had intended to be in the company of this group, I would have gone to a Bar Mitzvah. 

The few men who fell into my generation consisted of two who had creatively combed hair-flaps, loud floral polyester shirts, gold plated medallions and tight “Stayin’ Alive” guess-if-I’m-circumcised-disco-pants. Another wore an ill-fitting sweater vest and Sansabelt slacks. Another man’s body odor was so bad that it could be seen. One was picking his nose and, another had what seemed to be an uncontrollable tick.  He would thrust his right hand downward and grab his crotch while giving each woman a wink as she limped by.

The thumping K-TEL base coming from Mister Party Magic’s mobile disco caused my organs to jump around inside of my body. The vibration was causing an urgency equal to that of a serious bladder infection.

Everyone’s eyes were focused on the center of the dance floor where a dance challenge was taking place. The Potta-Potta verses the Latin Hustle. The competition was fierce. The sound of crepe-soled business-casual slip-ons squeaking across the floor was deafening. In unison, the “regulars” slapped their thighs, clapped twice, executed a half turn, kicked and then did the combination arm-flap heel-click maneuver. It was something to behold.

Personal hygiene standards forced me to turn down offers to slow dance with sweat soaked men. I guess that I had insulted one leisure-suited man when I said no to his offer to “boogie.” He looked as if I had just struck him with a rolled-up newspaper.

He barked, “So you don’t want to dance huh? Then what the hell are you doing here?”

Good question.

Chapter 3 I'll Make Dinner - From: Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman

I’ll Make Dinner

 “I’ll make dinner.” What the hell was I thinking? A dating death-wish only equaled by premature parent introduction. I had really done it this time. I am, admittedly, the worst cook in the free world. Sure, offering to prepare a meal for a person whom I cared about was a lovely gesture, but once again my mouth took on a life of it’s own by proposing to do something the rest of my body could not deliver.

In the past, I made many attempts to prepare foods only for them to end up in the trash or on fire. Frankly, if the food doesn’t come in a microwavable dish, covered with a peel-back plastic film and takes more than eight minutes to heat, it is beyond my realm of expertise. But, I offered.

As my mother always said, “If you can read, you can cook.” I had a cookbook. I can read. Full speed ahead.

I pulled out the 1963 Betty Crocker cookbook that was being used to prop up my computer and began leafing through it. I was amazed by the large variety of exotic dishes could be prepared by using cream of mushroom soup as the main ingredient. I flipped through the faded index tabs; Poultry, produce, legumes. Legumes? 

Chicken, I thought, I could do chicken. It must be impossible to ruin chicken. 

My menu was set: a chicken dish, vegetables, rice, salad, and dessert. Simple enough. I wrote my shopping list and off I went to the grocery store.

When I arrived at the store, I headed over to the cart corral to commandeer a shopping cart. They were stacked together so tightly that it required an unusual amount of upper body strength and a good foot hold to separate one from another. After sustaining a dislocated shoulder and a nasty shin bruise, I was on my way down isle one. As I started on my shopping adventure, I had a distinct, yet paranoid feeling that there must have been someone crouching behind the Nabisco end-cap with a remote control. He was guiding the right front wheel of the cart in any direction, other than the one I intended to go.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered the grocery store was not arranged in alphabetical order, or, for that matter, any logical order at all! It was just endless miles of canned goods, rectangular boxes, and linoleum. After zigzagging through the food maze for what seemed to be an eternity, I gathered almost all of the items I had on my list. Then I came to the corner of the muffin tin end-cap and condiment row.  Condiment row ... the isle of ten thousand names. According to my recipe I needed garlic powder, dried parsley, and cumin. Cumin? What the hell is that?  Cumin, I discovered, is four dollars and fifty cents.  It’s a mini can of a mystery spice of which I was only going to use a quarter of a teaspoon. I’m a logical, well-educated, cost conscious woman. I weighed the importance of the spice, and tried to recall the flavor of Cumin. I factored in the price, four dollars and fifty cents, and the recipe requirement of one-quarter teaspoon. Tough call, I thought. Can it be substituted? 

Cumin is brownish in color, I contemplated. Cinnamon is brown and far less expensive.  At the very least, I recognized the name. “A spice is a spice,” I figured.  I decided on the cinnamon and later realized that similar colors do not necessarily mean similar flavors. So much for the purple equals grape, green equals lime theory.

As I approached the check-out stand, a nervous little blue-haired woman, wearing a checkerboard apron handed me a coupon worth one dollar off the price of the chicken that was in my cart. Imagine the thrill.

I have developed a talent for choosing to cue up in the slowest moving line. Sure, it may appear shorter. But, it’s an optical illusion. I now believe the simple act of joining the end of a short line is, in fact, the signal for everyone else to move as if they require special medical attention. I find it amazing that my mere presence motivates even the most capable people to desperately require special assistance. As I stood behind a “coupon shopper,” I could feel myself age.  By the time I reached the front of the line, the dairy products were sour and the child whose face appeared on the milk carton had been found and graduated from college.

When it appeared to be my turn to “check-out,” I approached the cashier. Her name tag said- Peggy. Enthusiastically, yet prematurely, I thrust my chicken coupon in front of her. It quickly became apparent that I was not privy to proper coupon etiquette when Peggy shot me a “you’re-a-dumb-ass” look. I recoiled pulling my coupon back and quietly awaited her go-ahead nod to indicate the appropriate timing for coupon presentation. She seemed pleased. Peggy rang up a total that seemed unfair considering the items were raw and I had to put forth all of the effort to cook them. 

When I finished signing over the pink slip to my car to pay for the groceries, she surprised me with a question I had overheard others talk about. “Paper or plastic?”

Hmm. Decisions, decisions. Paper is more environmentally sound, yet, plastic is easier to carry. I looked into Peggy’s eyes for the answer. Blank. I was on my own. She actually seemed annoyed by my hesitation. “Plastic!?” I blurted. Peggy exhaled through her nose, jutted out her lower jaw and crammed $119.32 worth of groceries into two thirty-pound packages.

Upon arrival home, I unpacked the groceries, opened the cookbook, and preheated the oven to six hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I was ready to commence cooking activity.

To this day, I’m not quite sure how lettuce got stuck to the kitchen ceiling or how rice ended up in the bathroom, but I was determined to be successful.

Though my cooking techniques sparked a grease fire and caused several non-melt pot handles to become molten, it all seemed to be a small price to pay for that personal touch. Okay, so everything was slightly overdone ... charred… burnt beyond recognition.  I was thankful that chickens do not have dental records. I figured I could tell my dinner guest that it was Cajun cuisine. Blackened chicken? It’s a possibility. Blackened green beans? Perhaps. Blackened rice? It’s a stretch. Blackened cake?  Baked Alaska!