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)

My Body Revolted from Grumblings....by Randi Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

My Body Revolted

The other morning while taking a shower I felt something very strange on the back of my legs.  I had never noticed it before.  It wasn’t the cellulite.  I had grown used to that.  It was something different.  I quickly got out of the shower to look in the mirror and investigate. In order to get a good look, I stood on my toes with my back to the mirror and twisted my upper body to see the reflection. What could it be? I wondered.  At first I didn’t see anything unusual.  I reached down to determine exactly where the strange growth was.  When I had identified the area, I looked again. I was horrified when I realized that the large growth was my butt.  How did this happen?

Without warning, the combination of fatty foods, sugar and gravity has taken its toll on my body.  My body was rebelling.  It was revolting.  My rear end had silently crept downward and taken up residence on the back of my thighs.  I was a victim of ass-creep.

Sure, I had noticed that my clothing had become a little snug.  The excess weight around my hips and stomach filled my pants to cause the uncomfortable short-crotch syndrome and the binding waistband fold-over.  But I attributed it all to the bloating that is related to PMS.  Over time, I had managed to convince myself that I was pre-menstrual for twenty-three days each month.

I sat down at the kitchen table and while eating a blueberry muffin with butter and jam, I decided that I had to do something about this new development on the back of my thighs.  I finally had to admit that I was out of shape and had gained weight. I figured, I’ll just start on an exercise program and watch what I’m eating.  Easier said than done.

The first plan of action was to remove all junk food from my house.  As I was removing all of the cookies and pretzels from the pantry and the ice cream, fudge sauce, and frozen pizzas from the freezer, I thought about how wasteful I was being.  In my mind, I could hear my mother’s voice, “What about all of the children who are starving all over the world?”  I felt guilty.  So I decided to do my part.  I sat down and made a feast of it all.  It was reminiscent of the Last Supper.  A religious experience.  No waste.  I felt better.

Next, I had to locate my gym membership card, buy new exercise togs and figure out the best time to go to and work out.   I had been a member of the gym for two years and had managed to get there only twice.  The first time was the day that I had signed the membership contract.  The second time was the day after that.  The monthly membership dues were automatically withdrawn from my checking account.  By my calculations, each of my visits to the gym cost approximately three hundred dollars.  The one time I called to cancel my membership, I was completely intimidated by the gym manager who ended up convincing me to keep my membership and take advantage of the state-of-the-art equipment.  Although I assured him that I would get into an exercise régime, I thought seriously about closing my checking account and changing banks in lieu of justifying my laziness.  But I was too lazy to go to the bank.

Finally, I knew that I wasn’t going to get in shape overnight, so I had to have an interim plan. I’d have to go shopping.  I’d have to buy some shirts that were long enough to cover my rear end.

The New Minority from Grumblings....by Randi Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

The New Minority

Sixty years ago, if a woman in her late thirties and forties was unmarried, she was labeled a spinster, a maiden aunt or an old maid.  Stereotypically, she was perpetually high-strung and cranky.  She was doughty, sad looking and prematurely gray.  Her white patent leather handbag was always tightly clutched, with both hands, against her chest.  She wore sensible shoes on her feet and her hair in a bun or a hairnet.  She owned ten cats that she referred to as her children. She spent her Saturday afternoons rolling ace bandages at the Red Cross or had tea with the widows in the neighborhood.  If she did in fact have a job, she was a schoolteacher or librarian. She was an old age companion to her aging parents and the reliable babysitter for her nieces and nephews. Besides, what else could she possibly have to do with her weekends? 

Twenty years ago an unmarried woman was labeled as selfish, buried in her career or on the fast track.  She wore dark, severe, androgynous looking business suits with pressed cotton blouses and creatively tied scarves.  She attended power lunches.  Saturdays and Sundays were spent doing the work she had brought home from the office.  Weekend evenings were spent with either a dull, equally ambitious man or at the discotheque where she would meet up with various one-night stands, who she would cast aside because any personal involvement would hinder her career path and goals.  The popular belief was that she was just confused. Her priorities were screwed up.  But there was hope for her.  She would eventually “snap out of it” and settle down into marriage as soon as the right man appeared in her life.  

For the first time in history, there is a considerable population of unmarried women who have, in one way or another, managed to remain single throughout their twenties and thirties and beyond.  Consciously or subconsciously, they have broken “the pattern.” 

“The pattern” is the official, unwritten, and outdated, rule of female progression in society.  The elements of this pattern include attending school, perhaps starting a career, landing a husband, bearing children and moving into a ranch style house that is located within twenty miles of her parents.

Similar to many other minorities, the people outside of it, do not understand the rituals or life style. Face it, the unknown makes people feel uncomfortable. The minority is considered questionable and often criticized.  So, based of what the pattern-ers have come to believe, along with their lack of personal experience, members of the minority are labeled unconventional and irreverent and thus: unhappy or social failures. 

            With our shoulders squared, we, the minority, attempt to defend our choices and lifestyles.  The pattern-ers may appear to be listening and trying to understand us, but our efforts are dismissed.  They have already labeled us in an effort to justify to themselves, the minorities situation.

“She has buried herself in her career.  Her priorities are screwed-up”

“She must be a difficult person.  She’s hard to get along with.”

“She’s selfish.  All she thinks about is having fun.”

“She’s too picky.  Who does she think she is?  She needs to lower her standards.”

“She bitter from past relationships.”

“She must be gay.”

We, the members of the minority, are not different from anyone else.  We work and support ourselves, pay our bills and attend social events.  We require air, water, respect and love. We dread holiday season family get-togethers where, without subtlety, we are interrogated about why we don’t just settle down and get married like normal people.

“Why do you choose to live this way?” 

“What is wrong with you?”

“What am I supposed to tell people?”

I am in my late thirties, unmarried and yes, a functional member of society.  I am a proud member of this new minority.  There is not any great mystery about why I’m single. No federal or anti-social crimes have been committed.  Call it timing.  Call it circumstance. I simply have not met anyone who I want to marry or who wants to marry me.  I just haven’t run across anyone who deserves the punishment. Besides, I’ve been busy.

Years from now, the members of this minority will no longer be unique.  Those of us who endured the sarcastic comments, prejudices, and criticisms will be considered trailblazers.  During future holiday celebrations, sitting by the fire, we will gather our nieces, nephews and our own late-in-life children who will sit mesmerized as we tell our stories of single life in the late twentieth century and recount our early struggles as the pioneers of the new minority.

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.

Movies a la Carte - from Grumblings.... by Randi M Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Movies a la Carte

At the last minute, one Friday evening, I decided to go see a movie.  I knew that I wouldn’t be giving them much notice, but I called a few friends to invite them to join me.  When I telephoned, the friends who were at home had already made plans for the evening.  I looked at the clock.  It was getting late.  If I wanted to get to the theater in time for the coming attractions I had to abandon the idea of a movie companion.  So, I grabbed by coat and left for the theater.  No big deal, I thought.  I’m just going to be sitting in a dark room, watching a film, quietly.  It wasn’t as if I was going to the theater to have a heart-to-heart conversation with a long lost friend.  I was going to see a movie, plain and simple.  I could do that alone.

I had a slight tinge of insecurity while I waited in line to buy a ticket.  I was surrounded by handholding couples and groups of teenagers who all looked at me, standing alone, as if I had just been crowned Miss Social Pariah, 1999.

The pitying looks continued as I stood in line at the snack bar.  I had convinced myself that people were whispering behind their hands and looking at me out of the corners of their eyes.  “She her.  Over there. ” They motioned with a head-nod.  “She’s alone. Tsk-tsk.  What a loser.”  When I made it to the snack counter I considered ordering two popcorns and two drinks, just to throw them off.

I know it was paranoia but I felt as if all eyes were on me when I entered the theater.  All I wanted to do was sit down and blend in.  Within thirty-seconds, I had become completely self-conscious.  When I found a row that had a few empty seats, I quickly shuffled in to sit down.  In an effort to make it look as if I was saving a seat for my date while he was in the bathroom or at the snack bar, I put my coat over seat next to me.  To keep up the illusion, every few minutes, I would turn around and look back at the door.

I tried to kill time until the movie started.  I rummaged through my purse, rearranged my wallet, ate most of my popcorn, read the movie theater brochure that I had picked up in the lobby, and played the riddle game that was being displayed on the screen.  I looked at my watch.  I checked the door again.  Then I noticed the child who was standing on the seat directly in front of me.  He was turned around and facing me.  He was just standing there looking at me.

His look turned into a stare.  An unending-unblinking-see-right-through-to-the-soul stare.  It began to make me uncomfortable.  What did he see?  I looked down.  I looked up.  I looked at my nails.  I looked at the door again.  I tried to ignore it as long as possible.  Finally, I stared back.  I scared him. His eyes welled up with tears.  He whispered something in his mommy’s ear.  She shifted her position to get a glimpse of me.  Uh-oh, here it comes. I was certain that she was going to turn around, wag her finger, and give me a piece of her mind.  But instead, in a voice intended to be loud enough for me to hear, she started to explain what was wrong with the mean lady behind him.

“Ignore that lady.  She’s alone.  She probably has no friends who want to be with her and must be very unhappy.  Leave her alone.” 

I shrank.  Is that how I’m perceived?  After a minute or two of self-examination, I realized that I was reevaluating my entire existence because the parents of a four-year-old boy hadn’t taught him that staring is impolite. 

As the lights started to dim, I could sense the pity from the people who were seated around me.  I had to think fast.  To save face, I looked back at the door one more time and said loud enough for others to hear, “I wonder where he could be.  He’ll never find me in the dark.”  After my subtle announcement I gathered together my snacks, my purse, and my jacket and walked up the aisle toward the door to make it look like I was going to find him.  I walked through the swinging doors, crossed to the other side and came back into the theater through the other set of doors.  Shrouded by the darkness, I walked slowly down the aisle, found a single seat and sat down. 

The woman who was seated next to me leaned over and said, “I’ve been waiting to see this movie.  It’s supposed to be good.”

“Me too.”  I agreed, “I …”

Suddenly, we heard, “Shush!” from the man behind us.  “If you wanted you socialize, you should have stayed home.  Now be quiet and watch the movie.”

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

The Debriefing 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, he’s not here.” Geeze.

She tried again, “So?”

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

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

“Nice?  What does nice mean?”

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

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

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

“Sounds boring.” She sounded disappointed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I promise.” I assured her. 

I think she’ll recover.

Reading Between the Lines - from Grumblings...by Randi M Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Reading Between the Lines 

Every Sunday morning, I look through the personal advertisements in the newspapers.  Like many other women, I am looking for an honest ad - a diamond in the rough.  Unfortunately, there is a lack of accuracy running rampant among the personal pages.  Sure, it’s easy to find blurbs about humorous, professionals with many hobbies and interests. No one ever describes himself as unattractive, flabby, unimaginative, boring, bitter, penniless, unromantic, living with his mother, lazy, insincere, humorless, or as a pain in the ass.  It’s perfectly understandable that each advertiser wants to present himself in the best light, as the most desireable, new and improved product available.  Act now!  But the fact remains, if a woman responds to the ad, a face to face meeting could take place and the truth would be revealed.  Whatever happened to truth in advertising?

When it comes to the personal description, how do we know what is fact, what is fiction and what is simply a weak grasp on reality?  For the most part, it is not the intention of the advertiser to mislead the reader.  He just uses creative words and snappy phrases to describe his attributes and interests and to entice the shopper enough so she will respond to the ad.

So, how does the reader decipher the verbiage used in a personal advertisement?  Does she just have to blindly move forward and take her chances?  No, not anymore. I have developed a cross-referencing matrix that can be used to interpret the language of the personal ads.  This tool has been designed to help the reader to read between the lines of the personal ad and translate the mystical language to uncover the true message.

When he says:	He means:
Let’s meet for coffee, long walks on the beach, camping, good conversation, quiet evenings at home	“ I do not have any money.”
Cuddly, Teddy Bear	“I’m morbidly obese and have hair on my back.”
Very Handsome	“My mother says I’m good looking.”
Family minded	“I have custody of the children.”
Entrepreneur	“I don’t have a job and I live with my mother.”
Cute	“I’m under five foot five inches tall. “
Dry sense of humor	“I’m obnoxious.  I rub people the wrong way and I don’t care. I’m the only person, on earth, one who thinks that I’m funny.”
Harvard Grad in 1979	“I have not accomplished anything since 1979.”
Ivy League grad	“I’m smarter than you are.”
Young, active, energetic	“I’m 110 years old but I use hair-dye, wear a gold chain and have a prescription for Viagra.”
Spiritual, Devout Catholic, Buddist, Mormon or Religious Jew	“Be prepared to hear about it.”
No smoking, no drinking	“No fun.”
Loves Broadway shows	“I have homosexual tendencies.”
Sensitive	“I cry easily.  I will attach myself to you like a leach.  When you break up with me, I will make you feel guilty.”
Enjoys science and technology	“Be prepared to watch Star Trek tapes.”
Seeking Jewish woman, tall, thin, Sharon Stone look alike	“I’m completely unrealistic.”
Seeking life partner	“I need a wife.  My laundry has taken over my apartment.”
Seeking open minded companion	“I’ve been to jail.”
Seeking female 21-65	“Please, anyone!  Answer this ad.”
Seeking non-professional	“I’m insecure and scare easily.”
Seeking kindhearted woman	“My first wife cleaned me out.”

You’re not going to wear that, are you? by Randi M Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

You’re not going to wear that, are you? 

Before attending a class reunion, a small group of college friends convened at my house for hors d’oeuvres and a chance to catch up.  Over the years, we had all lost contact with one another.  Patty arrived first, followed by Joan and Marci.  As each woman entered the living room, we all gave her air kisses, light-non-wrinkling hugs and the once-over.  We mentally calculated if she had aged badly, gained weight, or if she had had her nose, eyes, thighs, or boobs reconstructed. Though uncomfortable, we all acted as if we were genuinely happy to see one another.

What do you say to someone who you have neither seen nor thought much about in the past fifteen years?  We settled for benign conversation about families and careers.  Pictures of children were passed around.  Then some of the girls showed pictures of their husbands taken in the early 1980’s when they had hair and muscle tone.  At first, all life updates were bright and optimistic.  But, as more and more wine was consumed, everyone grew relaxed the truth came out.  It’s interesting to note how virtual strangers will discuss the most intimate details of their lives when they are under the influence of Chardonnay and know that they won’t have to see each other for another fifteen years. Eventually, we heard about husbands’ infidelity or impotence or their money problems. 

Marci rolled her eyes, “Joe was laid off … again.”

“My husband Gregory and I haven’t had sex in two years.  He feels pretty guilty about it.” Joan took another sip of wine.  “Frankly, he wasn’t that good to begin with. But, at least, now I get jewelry.”

“That’s nothing”  Patty piped up.  “You may have heard I divorced Harvey.  One day, I came home early from work and caught him wearing my lingerie.” She continued, “I got the kids and he got custody of Victoria Secret.”

Everyone was laughing and seemed to be enjoying themselves. The doorbell rang and I when I opened the door to Janet and Teresa, the mood suddenly grew dark. As they walked in, Janet looked at my dress and said, “Are we early?  It looks like you didn’t have a chance to change into a nice dress for the party.”  With that said, everyone knew that there was going to be trouble. 

Janet had always been the ultimate snob.  She had the talent of reducing anyone to tears with just one scathing comment.  Janet had grown up as the only child of older, wealthy parents.  She had lived a very privileged life and was never shy about to rubbing her wealth and status in the face of anyone whom she had come into contact with. Everyone who knew her was afraid of Janet and never dared to say no to her.  During our college days, Janet’s parents had always provided her with a lot of money and had urged her to travel through Europe during school breaks.  After knowing Janet for a while, it’s obvious why her parents encouraged her to go away.

 We all knew that Janet’s nastiness stemmed from her own insecurities, but we still feared her commentary.  Janet could have taken the sport of hurling verbal barbs to the Olympics if only there had been a venue for it.  Although it had not been discussed, everyone at the party was hopeful the she had grown out of it.

Teresa had always been Janet’s side-kick, her flunky, her puppet.  Janet’s insecurities were only out done by Teresa’s fear of her.  Teresa’s function in their relationship had always been to agree with and enable Janet’s behavior.

We all reverted to our youth related awkwardness, and waited silently for Janet to unleash her unsolicited opinions on us.  Although she had matured and was no longer outright nasty, she didn’t let us down.  As the years had progressed, she had learned to shroud their insults with empty compliments.

“Marci,” Janet said, while looking her up and down. “I see that you haven’t lost your personal flare for style.”  She added, “I would have never thought to wear those colors together.  You’re very brave.”

Teresa smirked and added, “You’re very daring.”

Marci looked wounded as she glanced down at her outfit.

It was Patty’s turn next.  “Even after having all of those children, you’re still brave enough to tuck in your blouse.  You go girl.”

“Go, girl,” Teresa repeated and looked to Janet for approval.

Patty moved her hands in front of her stomach as she glared at Teresa and asked Janet what the hell her problem was.

 She avoided answering Patty’s question and turned her back on us.  For a moment, we were hopeful that Janet had realized how nasty she was being and would apologize.  Patty, Marci, Joan and I glanced at each other and smiled.  While looking in the mirror that hung over the fireplace, Janet glanced at the reflection of Joan.  “I wish I could be like you,” she said and turned to face her.  “I have this problem.  Unlike you Joan I am continually changing my hairstyle to fit the trends.  You have managed to stick with that same hairstyle for what … fifteen years?”

Joan was speechless.

Always the hostess, I remembered that it is impolite to offend a guest in my home, so instead of telling Janet to shut up, I suggested that we sit down, relax and have some cheese.

Janet turned toward me. “So, you’re still single. It must be nice to have the luxury of being selfish.  I mean, is it that you never wanted to get married or that you never had the opportunity?”

Bitch! I though.  I changed the subject, “Who wants more wine?” 

Marci waved her hand and said shyly, “My husband doesn’t like for me to drink.”

Janet looked at Marci in disbelief.   “Is he here?” she said sarcastically. Laughter erupted from the other wives.  Marci looked down, embarrassed.

Turning her attention back to me, Janet said, “Did you ever think that you would get to be this old and still be single?  What do they call someone like you?”  She paused, “a spinster?”

“Frankly, I have a great life and to answer your question, no, I don’t think about it.”

“Pity,” she sighed and looked out of the corner of her eye at Teresa.

Pity?  What the hell is that supposed to mean?  I wanted to lunge across the coffee table and smack her so hard that she would resemble a Picasso painting, but, I remembered one of the rules of entertaining: It is poor form to pummel a guest in your home.

Instead, I took at deep breath and looked at my watch, “I suppose we should get going to the reunion.”  We all gathered our purses and stepped out onto the porch.  It had started to rain.

“You go ahead,” Janet said as she pointed across the street.  “I’ll take Teresa in my new Jaguar.”

“Fine,” I said and the rest of us got into my car.

As I pulled my car out of the driveway, I noticed that Janet was fiddling with the door handle of her car.  She had locked her keys inside.  Janet and Teresa turned and tried to get my attention by waving at me.

I looked at Janet who was holding her handbag over her head to keep the rain from ruining her trendy hair-do. “Pity,” I said and drove away.

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.