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The Cocktail Party - by Randi Sherman

Cocktail Party

When I arrived at my friend’s holiday cocktail party, I looked around the room and realized that other than the hostess, Margaret, there was not a recognizable face in the crowd.  I glanced around to take stock of fashion sense in the room and then at the mirror to check my outfit.  I realized that once again, I had made the incorrect outfit selection.  It doesn’t matter how much planning I do, I have an inexplicable talent of choosing the most inappropriate apparel for any occasion.

If I were asked to select a word that best describes my appearance, I would say “pleasant.” Although, my looks do not stimulate one’s gag reflexes, I have not been presented any awards for my outstanding beauty and poise.  It is inevitable, there is always at least one woman at each party who has the ability to turn the heads of all of the men and generate instant jealousy from all of the women in the room.  She is tall and proud and magnetic.  She smolders.  I would describe myself as the semi-attractive woman who is standing just behind her…holding the coats.

So there I stood, in the foyer.  I had a choice to make. I could muster up some faux-party-confidence and begin to mingle.  I could attempt to blend in with the décor, sip a drink and hope that a party guest would happen by and engage me in a conversation.  I could plant myself near the buffet table and force people to speak with me, or at least say “excuse me,” if they want to get close to the food.  Or I could attach myself to Margaret, the hostess, who is, required by the law-of-hosting and etiquette to talk to me, or introduce me into another conversation.

While making my decision, a severe looking woman dressed in all black and who looked like she just stepped away from the Chanel make-up counter, walked up to me and introduced herself as Victoria, “Don’t call me Vicky,” she commanded.  “My name is Victoria.” 

Whatever you say, Vicky, I thought. 

Victoria was obviously killing time with me until someone more stylish was free for conversation.  She sipped her martini as she looked past me and lied to me.  Yes, lied.  I could tell.  If I had had a calculator with me and had added up all of things that she said she had accomplished, Victoria would have to be about two hundred and seventy years old.  Obviously, Victoria was not privy to the two basic rules of lying to someone at a cocktail party. First, if you choose to lie, make sure there is a recovery, if challenged.  “Really, Victoria, tell me more about water skiing on the Dead Sea.  I thought it was a sacred place and that speedboats were not allowed there. From whom did you get a permit?”  Second, lie to the party-drunk or to someone who is not really listening, who will, most likely, not remember anything about the conversation.

Without so much as a word, a ‘good-bye,” a “piss-off” or a nod Victoria sashayed away from me toward a group of porcelain faced, skinny people who seemed to be posing. They weren’t moving. They just might have worked part time as department store window mannequins.

After a minute or so, I found and joined a small group of people who were politely listening to a man named Neil as he droned on about his “fabulous” career, his incredible office, his importance, and his plans for advancement “in the firm.”  No one in the circle seemed interested in what he was saying, but they didn’t want to appear rude and walk away.  So we all stood there, helplessly and listened. He was so boring that he should have been forced to wear a warning label.  Caution: Use of his man may cause drowsiness.

My eyes began to water when I strained to keep my mouth closed while stifling a yawn.  I was tempted to grab Neil by the shoulders, shake him and holler, “No one in this room finds anything at all fascinating about you or your work.  Unless you could promise someone a high paying position, that requires minimal work and travel to exotic destinations along with an unlimited expense account, we simply don’t want to hear about it!  But instead, I stood quietly, with the rest of the group, until he finished his verbal resume.

A few minutes later, Margaret motioned me over and asked me if I was enjoying myself.

I started to lie. “Oh yes …”

She interrupted, “I want you to meet someone.  Come with me.” She motioned with her finger for me to follow her.

She then introduced me to a man named Michael.  He was also alone. He was handsome, intelligent and interesting … and spoken for.  About ten minutes into our conversation he announced, “I have a girlfriend who is out-of-state.  But you and I could get together for coffee, or something.”  Then he added, “Fortunately, I don’t find you attractive so I don’t have to worry about getting myself into trouble.”

What?  Fortunately, he doesn’t find me attractive … Was that supposed to be a compliment?  Gee, I thought.  A girl can’t hear that too many times.

When I went outside for a breath of fresh air, I met Phil.  He seemed like a “regular guy.”   We spoke for a few moments.  He asked me if I was dating anyone.  I told him that I wasn’t and asked about his situation.  He told me that he was single.

He started, “My last girlfriend was a model … ”  

I stopped him right there.  I had to know.  “Tell me, Phil,” I asked, “Why is it that every man I meet used to date a model?  How many models could be out there?”  I could never understand why a man would tell a woman about how beautiful his past girlfriends were. Although men may find this information to be fascinating and impressive, women can live a lifetime without hearing it.

I wandered into the kitchen to catch my breath and plan my escape. I looked at my watch.  Damn, it was too early to leave.  The caterers looked at me with a knowing-look that said, “Sit down, and have a cup of coffee.”

            As I sat there in the kitchen, a few other party-goers drifted in.  Some of the sat down.  Others leaned against the counters, had some coffee, and picked at the desert trays.  Before I knew it, the entire party had moved into the kitchen area. 

Over all, it had been a lovely party.  The food was delicious and guest were very nice but I was ready to leave.

Michael waved over the crowd toward Margaret and announced, “Well, I have to be on my way.  I have to catch a plane in the morning.” 

That was my opportunity, “Michael, would you mind walking me to my car?”  My question was two-fold.  It not only gave Margaret the illusion that Michael and I had hit-it-off, it also was my chance to cut out of the party.

             

Purse Patrol - by Randi Sherman, The author of Paula Takes A Risk

Purse Patrol

There is no discussion about who will do it.  It’s an unwritten, unspoken rule. It’s a fact.  The one person who is considered the homeliest or most antisocial one of the group is designated to watch her friends’ purses while they enjoy themselves.  She has been assigned to purse-patrol, the purse monitor is relegated to the table, disallowed from going to the ladies room and unavailable to accept invitations to dance.  Her main objective for the evening is to loyally stand guard over her friends’ belongings while they socialize and have a good time.  Purse patrol is the grown-up equivalent to being invited to teenage function because her mom will drive.

When my friends and I arrived at the club, we found a vacant table and sat down.  Then the inevitable happened, I heard the phrase, “Will you watch my purse for me?”  Before I could answer, clutches, backpacks and evening bags were all piled up on the table in front of me.  Oh my God!  I had been caught completely by surprise.  I had been appointed as the purse-monitor for the evening.  I quickly whipped out a hand mirror and began an assessment to determine what had gone wrong.  Was it my hair?  Was it my choice of clothing?  Had I been too quiet in the car on way to the club?  Did my friends perceive my silence as a bad mood?  Whatever the case, there was nothing that could be done now.  Unceremoniously, I had been assigned to purse-duty.

As I sat there, I called upon my improvisational skills and tried to act as if my obvious solitude didn’t bother me.  I attempted to appear as if I enjoyed watching all of the socializing that was going on around me.  With faux confidence, I attempted to look enormously interested in some activity going on near the bar.  I tapped my toes to the music, snapped my fingers, and even attempted some chair dancing.  I mindlessly sipped at the drink that quickly became melted ice and eventually an empty glass. 

Along with purse-duty, I also had the responsibility of guarding the chairs around the table.  Many attempts were made by other clubbers to commandeer the empty chairs. “No, someone is using that chair,” I snapped.  “My friends will be back in a minute.”  Finally, after I realized that I was behaving like a rabid Rotweiller, I conceded to a couple. “You can use them until my friends come back.” 

The woman gave me a “Yea, sure” and chuckled as she and her new friend proceeded to sit down.  It didn’t take long for them to forget that I was there.  They began to perform hands-free tonsillectomies on one another.  I sat there, the purse-lieutenant, and attempted to ignore the foreplay that is happening just two feet away. 

After about an hour, a man approached the table.  He introduced himself as Jim and asked me if I would like to dance with him.  I wanted to, but I simply could not.  I was on purse-patrol.  Abandoning my post would have been met by the social equivalent to a court martial.  Jim was forced to make the decision to either, accept the apologetic “no” and walk away or sit down to converse with me.  With a look of defeat on his face, Jim looked around the room, shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Oh, what the hell…” and sat down.

I was having trouble focusing on our conversation because I was trying to catch the eye of one of my friends.  I tried waving my hand at her.  I tried staring at her.  Finally, I attempted to telepathically connect with one of them.  I hoped that she would feel compelled to relieve me of my post.  No luck.  Once Jim realized that I was not going to be excused from purse-duty, he excused himself and left.

I felt defeated.   I decided that I now hated the people who assigned me to purse-duty.  And, as soon as I had the opportunity, I would give them a piece of my mind.  Suddenly, one of my friends, Karen, approached the table.  I perked up.  I smiled wide, hoping that her feet were tired from two hours of dancing.  But, the purpose of her visit was only to reapply her lipstick.  Then she announced that she was going outside to grab a breath of fresh air and that she would be back in a minute.  Yeah, sure.  Every so often, my other friends glanced over and waved at me from the dance floor.

All hope of having a conversation with anyone other than with the busboy was gone.  The “lovers” who were borrowing the chairs, had by now moved onto the button fiddling, caressing and moaning portion of their evening.  They were now practically sitting on top of one another and had freed up a chair.

I sat there and casually looked around the room.  I wasn’t really focusing on anything but it was something to do.  I rocked back in the chair a few times. Checked my watch.   During the next visual sweep of the room, my eyes settled on the purses that were on the table in front of me.  “Hmm,” I thought.  “I wonder what’s in there.”   I rationalized,  “I have the right to know what I’ve been asked to guard with my life.”  Besides, I was bored.

I looked around the room again and quietly reached for the clutch bag.  The clutch bag belonged to a longtime friend, Karen, who was on a constant, unrelenting search and conquer husband-finding-mission.  Because the clutch was so small, I didn’t expect to find much. I was just going to take a peek.  In addition to a redder-than-red lipstick, a comb and a kissing-fresh breath spray, I unraveled the continuous roll of twelve condoms.  Wow, someone certainly is optimistic, I thought. I can understand one, possibly two, perhaps three, that is, if he’s young and sober.  But, a dozen? Whoa!  Go girl!  I tucked everything back into the clutch and replaced it on the table.

Still, there was no sign of “my friends.”  I would continue my purse inspection.  The next item of inspection would be the Barbara’s backpack.  Barbara is known to her friends as “Ever Ready,” the woman who could be ready for anything at anytime.  Spontaneity seemed contrived compared to Barbara’s “whatever” attitude. The backpack was heavy.  When I unbuckled, untied, and unsnapped the flap, I found a cell phone, make-up, a Swiss army knife, comfortable shoes, safety-pins in a variety of sizes, a scarf, pantyhose, a simple yet classic black dress, a highway flare, a travel toothbrush and a package of trail mix.  Barbara isn’t out for the evening, she’s running away from home.

 Finally, I dragged Marcia’s bag across the table by its ornate shoulder strap.  When I unhooked the clasp of the purse, an artillery of anti-man paraphernalia was uncovered. I was reminded of the Viet Nam documentaries I had seen on PBS.  I found a canister of pepper-spray, a personal alarm (push button activation) and a key chain with a self-defense baton, and a small flashlight with a whistle attached to it.  I carefully checked the side pocket for a hand-grenade.  I was expecting the Leslie Stahl and a 60 Minutes camera crew to appear and interrogate me.  “Can we ask you a few questions regarding concealed weapons?”  

I would, of course, act shocked.  Leslie and a cameraman would chase me as I ran to my car.  I’d pull my jacket over my head in an attempt to hide my face.  No doubt, they would catch up with me when I arrived at my car only to find that I had locked the keys in it.  I’d be forced to cover the camera lens with my hand and recite the customary, “No comment.”

The evening had dragged on for what seemed to be an eternity.  I had had enough time to evaluate every person in the club, determined what they did for a living, and how much money they made.  I also figured out which men lived with their parents’, who was cheating on a spouse and who was out just for sex.  By the time my friends were ready to leave, I had worked myself into a major tizzy because I had been ignored for several hours.  I was furious. 

Karen, Marcia and Barbara were giddy.  They were waving around business cards and crumpled paper napkins that had telephone numbers written on them.  They hardly noticed that I was seething. 

During the car ride home, Barbara looked at me and said, “Wasn’t that fun? Did you meet anyone?” 

Even though I had mentally prepared an lecture about the responsibilities of friendship that would, no doubt, leave my friends reevaluating their behavior and begging for forgiveness, I kept it to myself.  I realized that I was just irritable because I was forced to take my turn at purse duty.

“I met Ivan, the busboy,” I said, “but he works nights and weekends.  It just wouldn’t work out.  So, we decided to just be friends.” 

Whats it all about?

PAULA TAKES A RISK, AND SO DOES HER AUTHOR

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

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

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

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

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

A little about Paula Takes A Risk

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

take a look

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

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.

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.

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.

Cocktail Party - from Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman by Randi M Sherman, Author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available 2012

Cocktail Party 

When I arrived at my friend’s holiday cocktail party, I looked around the room and realized that other than the hostess, Margaret, there was not a recognizable face in the crowd.  I glanced around to take stock of fashion sense in the room and then at the mirror to check my outfit.  I realized that once again, I had made the incorrect outfit selection.  It doesn’t matter how much planning I do, I have an inexplicable talent of choosing the most inappropriate apparel for any occasion.

If I were asked to select a word that best describes my appearance, I would say pleasant. Although, my looks do not stimulate one’s gag reflexes, I have not been presented any awards for my outstanding beauty and poise.  It is inevitable, there is always at least one woman at each party who has the ability to turn the heads of all of the men and generate instant jealousy from all of the women in the room.  She is tall and proud and magnetic.  She smolders.  I would describe myself as the semi-attractive woman who is standing just behind her…holding the coats.

So there I stood, in the foyer.  I had a choice to make. I could muster up some faux-party-confidence and begin to mingle.  I could attempt to blend in with the décor, sip a drink and hope that a party guest would happen by and engage me in a conversation.  I could plant myself near the buffet table and force people to speak with me, or at least say “excuse me,” if they want to get close to the food.  Or I could attach myself to Margaret, the hostess, who is, required by the law-of-hosting and etiquette to talk to me, or introduce me into another conversation.

While making my decision, a severe looking woman dressed in all black and who looked like she just stepped away from the Chanel make-up counter at Macy’s, walked up to me and introduced herself as Victoria, “Don’t call me Vicky,” she commanded.  “My name is Victoria.” 

Whatever you say, Vicky, I thought. 

Victoria was obviously killing time with me until someone more stylish was free for conversation.  Victoria sipped her martini and lied to me.  Yes, lied.  I could tell.  If I had had a calculator with me and had added up all of things that she said she had accomplished, Victoria would have to be about one hundred and seventy years old.  Obviously, Victoria was not privy to the two basic rules of lying to someone at a cocktail party. First, if you choose to lie, make sure there is a recovery, if challenged.  “Really, Victoria, tell me more about water skiing on the Dead Sea.  I thought it was a sacred place and that speedboats were not allowed there. Who did you get a permit from?”  Second, lie to the party-drunk or to someone who is not really listening, and most likely, will not remember anything about the conversation.

When Victoria walked away from me, I joined a small group of people who were politely listening to a man named Neil as he droned on about his “fabulous” career, his incredible office, his importance, and his plans for advancement “in the firm.”  No one in the circle seemed interested in what he was saying, but they didn’t want to appear rude and walk away.  So we all stood there, helplessly and listened. He was so boring that he should have been forced to wear a warning label.  Caution: Use of his man may cause drowsiness.

My eyes began to water when I strained to keep my mouth closed while stifling a yawn.  I was tempted to grab Neil by the shoulders, shake him and holler, “No one in this room finds anything at all fascinating about you or your work.  Unless you could promise someone a high paying position, that requires minimal work and travel to exotic destinations along with an unlimited expense account, we don’t want to hear about it!  Get a hobby!”  But instead, I stood quietly, with the rest of the group, until he finished his verbal resume.

A few minutes later, Margaret motioned me over and asked me if I was enjoying myself.

I started to lie, “Oh yes … ”

She interrupted, “I want you to meet someone.  Come with me.” She motioned with her finger for me to follow her.

She then introduced me to a man named Michael.  He was also alone. He was handsome, intelligent and interesting … and spoken for.  About ten minutes into our conversation he announced, “I have a girlfriend who is out-of-state.  But you and I could get together for coffee, or something.”  Then he added, “Fortunately, I don’t find you attractive so I don’t have to worry about getting myself into trouble.”

What?  Fortunately, he doesn’t find me attractive … Was that supposed to be a compliment?  Gee, I thought.  A girl can’t hear that too many times.

When I went outside for a breath of fresh air, I met Phil.  He seemed like a “regular guy.”   We spoke for a few moments.  He asked me if I was dating anyone.  I told him that I wasn’t and asked about his situation.  He told me that he was single.

He started, “My last girlfriend was a model … ”  

I stopped him right there.  I had to know.  “Tell me, Phil,” I asked, “Why is it that every man I meet used to date a model?  How many models could be out there?”  I could never understand why a man would tell a woman about how beautiful his past girlfriends were. Although men may find this information to be fascinating and impressive, women can live a lifetime without hearing it.

I wandered into the kitchen to catch my breath and plan my escape. I looked at my watch.  Damn, it was too early to leave.  The caterers looked at me with a knowing-look that said, “Sit down, and have a cup of coffee.”

            As I sat there in the kitchen, a few other party-goers drifted in.  Some of the sat down.  Others leaned against the counters, had some coffee, and picked at the desert trays.  Before I knew it, the entire party had moved into the kitchen area. 

Over all, it had been a lovely party.  The food was delicious and guest were very nice but I was ready to leave.

Michael waved over the crowd toward Margaret and announced, “Well, I have to be on my way.  I have to catch a plane in the morning.” 

That was my opportunity,  “Michael, would you mind walking me to my car?”  My question was two-fold.  It not only gave Margaret the illusion that Michael and I had hit-it-off, it also was my chance to cut out of the party.

            Margaret smiled, “Thanks for coming.”  As she hugged my good-bye, she whispered, “Call me tomorrow.  I want to hear everything.”

“Oh, Margaret,” I said and winked,  “nothing is going to happen.  If anything, we’ll probably just go for a cup of coffee.” 

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.

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

Can you just say no?

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

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

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

·         My husband prefers that I don’t date.

·         Do you know what a hermaphrodite is?

·         Would you mind if my parole officer tags along?

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

·         I’m moving out of the country tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

·         I’m having a Caesarian section that day.

·         Did I mention that I’m incontinent?

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

·         Would you mind if I brought a gun?

 

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.

Punishment by Babysitting From Grumblings... By the Author of Paula Takes a Risk - Available in March 2012

 

Punishment by Babysitting

 

I have come to believe that during a woman’s pregnancy a special “Mommy” hormone is activated.  This hormone contains the genes of extreme patience and the ability to translate baby talk, crying, whining and shrilling noises into English.  Moreover, this hormone also contains a homing device that disallows the mommy from running away from home out of pure frustration.

For those of us who do not have children and have not spent an enormous amount of time around them, we are at a loss regarding how to speak to and entertain them.  We erroneously think that we can handle anything they have to dish out.  After all, we deal will all types of people, personalities, and situations everyday.  How difficult could it be?

Nancy, a good friend of mine, ran into a bind regarding babysitting arrangements and asked me to “sit” with her kids for a few hours.  My afternoon was free and I wanted to be helpful, so I said, “Sure.”  After all, how difficult could it be?  I quickly learned the answer to that question.

On Saturday afternoon, Nancy dropped off Nick, age five, and Samantha, age two and a half, along with a bag filled with toys, videos, books, crayons and assorted Disney underwear.  Nancy told Nick and Samantha to be good and listen to my instructions.  Nancy assured me that she would return in two hours and rambled on with instructions. How difficult could this be? I laughed to myself.  I assured Nancy not to worry as I walked her to the door and said good-bye.

Through the window, the kids watched their mommy drive away, abandoning them for the afternoon.  When Nancy’s minivan was out of sight, Nick and Samantha turned around and looked at me with pouting expressions that said, “Now what?  Entertain me!”  Samantha crossed her arms across her little body.  Nick started fingering an expensive crystal figurine.  They stared at me.  It was eerie.

Now what? I thought to myself.  I remembered reading somewhere that it is important to get down to the children’s level.  Eye to eye.  So, with a big smile, I leaned over, put my hands on my knees and asked, “So, what would you like to do?” 

They looked at one another and shrugged their little shoulders.  Soon Samantha’s eyes started welling up with tears and she started that cranky, pre-tantrum, bouncing move.  Her lower lip began to protrude and then quiver.  I feared what came next.  It wasn’t long before a crying tantrum ensued.  Samantha started first.  Nick observed his sister and then told me that I was a mean lady for making her cry.  He raised his little fist and swung it at me and then, within seconds, began to cry himself.  Now what?  It had only been five minutes since Nancy left.  This was going to be a long afternoon.

At first, I tried being reasonable “C’mon guys, give me a break.  I understand that you miss your mommy but she’ll be back soon.”  Then, I pleaded. “Please stop crying.  We’ll do anything you want to do.”  I tried bribery.  “I’ve got ice cream in the kitchen.”  Finally, I gave up. “If you want to cry, go right ahead.  I’ve got other things to do.  Let me know when you’re done.” 

Suddenly the crying stopped.  I wasn’t sure if it was my clever unintentional use of reverse psychology or if they just had become dehydrated.  Whatever the reason, I wasn’t going to analyze it.  I was just hopeful that the crying portion of our afternoon was over.  Besides, I had suddenly and miraculously become their best friend.  They wanted me to sit on the floor and play with them.

Nick and Samantha unloaded the bag of crafts, toys and videos that Nancy had brought with them.  They insisted on playing with everything all at one time.  I read a book about a caterpillar to them as they watched a video, drew on my antique coffee table and played with plastic action figurines.  As quickly as it had begun, it was over.  Within five minutes they were bored.  They stared at me again.  When I suggested that they clean up their toys, they looked at me in utter disbelief.  It was as if I had asked them to give up snacks and all of their toys for the sake of world peace.

I noticed that Nick was cupping and squeezing his crotch.  “What’s the matter?”  I asked.

He informed me, “I have to go to the potty.” 

“Do you need help?”  I asked.

“No, I’m a big boy.” 

What did I know?  I said fine and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom.  I later found that Nick may be a big boy but not big enough to reach to toilet.  He had managed to pee all over the bathroom, the guest towels, the bath mat and cabinets.  I wasn’t sure if his aim was really bad or…really good.

Nancy told me that Samantha was doing well with her potty training.  So I asked Samantha if she had to use the potty also.  She looked up at me with her big blue eyes and shook her head no.  No, of course not, she had already relieved herself in her pants.  I asked her if she made number one or number two.  She held up four fingers. The permeating smell provided the answer.  Oh my God! I wondered. “What does Nancy feed these kids?  Limburger cheese? Does Kraft have a toxic waste flavored macaroni and cheese recipe?”  I suggested that I change her underpants.  She refused.  I begged.  Nick called her “stinky” until she cried.  Only then did she agree to a fresh pair of Little Mermaid panties.

Nick announced, “We want a snack.”

“Did you have lunch?” I asked.

“No.” Nick said. “We haven’t eaten all day.  Mommy didn’t give us any food.”

“What would you like?”  The second that question came out of my mouth, I knew it was the wrong thing to ask.

“Candy!”  Samantha shouted.

Nick chimed in, “Chips and cookies.”

“Does your mommy let you eat that?”

“All of the time,” Nick tried to convince me, “Everyday.”

I looked in the refrigerator in an effort to find something to serve as a snack to Nick and Samantha.  My refrigerator is full of restaurant leftovers, wine and the food that is served with wine. Humm. Brie? No. French cheese would be lost on them.  I pulled out a container of hummus.  Nick informed me that it looks like “throw-up.”  Mediterranean olive mix?  Nope, too salty and they had pits. How would I explain the bloating and choking to Nancy?  Well, I had a box of chocolates from Christmas which I had put freezer in an attempt to keep myself from devouring the whole thing in one sitting. No, too hard. Peanut butter, yes.  That was the answer.  Peanut butter and crackers.  Kids like that.  Another tragedy averted.

While eating her snack, Samantha looked up at me and asked, “Do you have any babies?”

Before I could answer, Nick told his sister, “No silly, she’s too old to have babies.”

How old do these kids think I am?  I thought of launching into an informative discussion about how women are having children well into their forties.  But then I realized that young children believe that anyone older than twelve is old.

            I noticed that there was a lot of eye rubbing and ear pulling going on.  Not to mention, the whining.  I recognized this ritual. “Isn’t it time for a nap?” I asked. I begged. Quite frankly, I was exhausted.  I wondered, “How do mothers do this all day everyday?”  It must be that Mommy Hormone.

“No!” Nick announced, “We don’t need a nap.”

Samantha started to cry and in a shrilling voice that only dogs can hear, she whined, “I don’t want to take a nap!”

Fine.

Now what?  We had been through tantrums, played games, read a book, watched a video, changed underpants, and ate a snack.  The only thing left to do was to help them study for their college preparatory tests.

Nick announced, “We’re bored.”

“Well, what would you like to do?”

Nick lit up, “Let’s play hide and seek.”  Then he proceeded to explain the rules.  “We’ll hide and you find us. Count to a hundred.”

Before I knew it, Nick and Samantha ran out of the room.  I could hear them giggling as they made their way through the house.  Every couple of seconds I shouted out a number. “Twenty!” “Fifty!” “Eighty!” “Ready or not, here I come!”  This was my chance.  I sat down on the couch.

I heard Nancy’s minivan pull into my driveway.  I stood up and called out, “Nick and Samantha, your mommy is here!”

            When Nancy walked in, she looked around and asked me, “Where are they?”

I wasn’t sure. “We’re playing hide and seek and they’re hiding.”

Nancy smirked, “You needed a break, huh?”

Nancy called out for Nick and Samantha. They ran out to greet her as if they were being reunited after ten years of forced separation.

As Nancy was gathering all of their toys, she told them to thank me.  In unison, Nick and Samantha recited a well-practiced, “thank you” and ran out the door toward Nancy’s car.

“So,” Nancy joked. “Same time next week?”

“Next week? Sure.” I said. “That will give me just enough time to recover from today.”