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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.

PRESS RELEASE for Paula Takes A Risk

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

PAULA TAKES A RISK, AND SO DOES HER AUTHOR

San Francisco, CA - February 16th , Many people walk aimlessly through life, not taking any risks, and burying themselves in a mire of mediocrity. They hope for a dream life, but are unwilling to make changes that will make it a reality. This is how life is for the lead character in PAULA TAKES A RISK by first time author Randi Sherman.

Paula Tenenbaum spends her days doing only what is expected of her, not making any waves, and reading celebrity magazines, believing the dream life is for everyone else but her. Living in a rundown apartment, with a refrigerator as her favourite distraction, she is living a mundane life. To make matters worse, She has lost her job, her boyfriend, and has no future prospects.  Life just isn’t working out for Paula.

Life changes abruptly, when she is unwittingly drawn into an adventure by her neighbor Larry, who is broke and deep in debt. She naively agrees to his plans to pose as a successful business woman and join in a money making scheme. Too desperate, too afraid and too involved to step away, she creates and lives a lie as she takes on the persona of the person she always wanted to be, navigating her way through business and social situations until the whole plan starts to unravel. Their scheme and lies are uncovered and investigations ensue. 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.

 

Contact:

Randi Sherman
Email address: randishrmn@gmail.com
Website address: http//: www.paulatakesarisk.com

Good-bye Whitney Houston

A true talent lost. Rest in peace Whitney

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

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.

 

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.

And Guest From Grumblings.... By the Author of Paula Takes a Risk - Available March 2012

And Guest

The most terrifying two-word combination that a single woman can read is “and Guest” written in calligraphy on the front of an oversized, ecru-colored envelope.  Even the most self-assured woman is stopped dead in her tracks when she realizes that she is expected to bring a date to a social function and she can’t think of anyone to take with her.

I recently received one of those envelopes.  My friend Sharon was getting married. My first thought was, Oh my God. Who am I going to invite as my guest? I can’t show up alone.  “and Guest” implies that they are expecting me to bring a date.  An escort.  A dance partner.

  I went through a mental checklist of all of the men I know.  Let’s see now.  What about Henry? No, he’s married.  John? No, he’s seeing someone else.  Robert? No, his behavior embarrasses me when we’re out in public.  There’s Carl.  No, I unceremoniously dumped him and humiliated him in front of his friends and co-workers.  Humm, I wonder if he’s still holding a grudge?

I searched for my address book.  I frantically flipped through the pages trying to remember which men I hadn’t referred to as “The Asshole of the Year” to my friends.  Looking at the names, I wished that I had returned some of those telephone messages from phone calls that I had avoided. Messages that were left on my answer machine by men while I stood there listening their voices over the speaker as they poured out their hearts onto a twenty-second tape.  As I considered how my past behavior resulted in my current predicament, I reprimanded myself, I have to change my ways…tomorrow.

I began to panic.  I suppose I could respond and tell Sharon that I would not be able to go to her wedding. No, that wouldn’t work. I would have to come up with an excuse, a lie, and then I would have to remember it for the rest of my life. Then I would have to be on my toes at all times and be prepared to convincingly discuss my excuse, in great detail, every time Sharon reminisced about her wedding. Maintaining a lie for several years is just too much pressure for me to endure. Lying was not an option.

Wait just one minute!  Sharon knows perfectly well that I’m not dating anyone right now. Is she trying to punish me? Is she trying to humiliate me? How could she be so cold?  I became indignant, That’s it!  I’m not going and that will show her!  Those thoughts faded when reality stepped in and I remembered that the world doesn’t revolve around me and that Sharon’s wedding ceremony and reception were not maliciously planned with the express purpose of embarrassing me.

I thought about being honest and logical. Perhaps I could call Sharon and tell her that I didn’t have a date to bring and ask her if she had invited any single men who also need a date.  No, then I would look pathetic. Pathetic and desperate, a sad combination.

I looked at the invitation again. The date of the wedding was six weeks away.  I had to come up with a plan of action.  I could go out and actively pursue men.  Let’s see.  If I met a man this weekend, we could have three, four, possibly five dates before Sharon’s wedding.  We would appear comfortable together and after six weeks there would be a good possibility of some hand-holding and sweet glances.

But there was the very real possibility that I would not meet a potential “and Guest” right away. I calculated, if I met someone two or three weeks from now, we might only be able to get in a few dates before the wedding.  This could create a familiarity and comfort issue. What if I don’t know him well enough to determine what his idea of formal wear is?  It could be an expensive suit or a T-shirt with a tuxedo stenciled on the front.

I considered going to a popular restaurant in my neighborhood and making the announcement that I had been invited to a wedding. I would explain that I had been asked to bring a date and that I would be interviewing applicants from the hours of nine to eleven at the end of the bar. Along with proof of employment and a valid driver’s license, a list of three references must be provided. Transients and drunks need not apply.

The weeks flew by and before I knew it Sharon’s wedding day had come. I had not arranged for an “and Guest.”  I was going to the wedding alone, unescorted. Things could be worse, I thought.  Sharon could have asked me to be a bridesmaid.