Pre Sex Mental Checklist from Grumblings... By the Author of Paula Takes a Risck, Available March 2012

Pre-Sex Mental Checklist 

There are occasions when we just don’t know what the end of an evening is going to bring.  Dinner, then a movie, perhaps we holding hands as we walk down the main boulevard and window shop, or a glass of port wine or a cup of coffee in front of the fireplace and a goodnight kiss.  Perhaps the kiss will turn into a make-out session. The next thing you know, buttons are being unbuttoned, zippers are being unzipped, and hooks are no longer connected to eyes.  What happens next? I consider. But, I’m not prepared!  

Sex is great.  Spontaneity is great.  The combination of the two is exciting.  The problem with the “unplanned” is that there isn’t an opportunity to make the appropriate arrangements that are necessary to ensure ease of mind.  So, in a split second, almost subconsciously, I run through our pre-sex mental checklist to determine and hopefully eliminate any stumbling blocks that could effect the outcome of the impending sexual experience.

The Pre-Sex Mental Checklist can be divided into four categories: the essential checklist, body related issues, clothing related concerns, and emotional issues.

The Essential Pre-Sex Mental checklist

·         Who is supplying the birth control?  Is there enough?

·         When was my last menstrual period?

·         Did I shave my legs?

·         Do I have intestinal gas?

·         Do I know his name?  If not, will “Oh, baby” suffice?

Body Related Issues

·         Do my breasts disappear into my armpits when I lie on my back?

·         Do I have any tattoos, piercings, bruises or scars that will require explanation or result in disgust, laughter or pity?

·         When was my last bikini waxing appointment?

·         Are my toenails painted? Or are there just remnants of a pedicure that was done three weeks ago?

·         Do I have any band-aids on my body?

·         Do I have any embarrassing acne or break-outs?

·         Do my joints crackle?

·         Is my nose clean?

·         Is there anything in my teeth?

·         How’s my breath?

·         Do I get severe bed head?

Clothing Related Concerns

·         Do I have too much make-up on?  Will it rub off and ruin the pillowcase? 

·         Will he be frightened when he doesn’t recognize me in the morning?

·         Am I wearing sexy underwear?

·         Am I wearing that underwear?

·         Is my bra worn out, baggy or have wires that may cause injury?

·         Are my shoulder pads being held on by my bra-straps?

·         Am I wearing any clothing that is difficult to remove? (i.e.: pantyhose, tummy control garment)

·         Am I wearing any garments that have tight elastic that, when removed, will leave a red ring around my waist or under my breasts?

·         Am I wearing knee-hi stockings?

·         Am I wearing any jewelry that will cause scratching or choking?

 Emotional Issues

·         Will I stress out over my clothes wrinkling on the floor overnight?

·         Should I keep my jewelry on or is this an all-nighter?

·         Do either of us consider this to be a one night stand?

·         Do I want to see this man ever again?

·         If we are at my house, how do I get him to leave before morning?

·         Am I expecting any phone calls from other men, a member of the clergy, or my mother?

·         If I’m at his house, what excuse will I use to leave before daybreak?

·         What will I say if the sex is mediocre-to-bad?

Purse PAtrol from Grumblings.... by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

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.  Because 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.  I cringed when I realized that the people who passed by gave me the pity-filled “once-over.”  Suddenly, I became self-conscious. What were they thinking?  I could hear their thoughts.

“Look at that poor soul, sitting there all alone.  What a loser.”  Only the former purse-monitors knew my pain.  

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. I 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 (careful not to set off a trip wire).  I was expecting the Morley Shaffer 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.  Morley 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, what they did for a living, 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 oration 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.” 

Man Under Assessment from Grumblings..... by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk - Available March 2012

Man Under Assessment

Because of the competition amongst women, we are hesitant to leave a prospective date alone for too long in a room filled with other women. Short of taking him with you to the ladies room, locking him your car, or asking him to hold your purse; there is little you can do to identify him as “taken” or “under consideration.”  Wouldn’t it be great if you could place a reserved sign on a man?  Perhaps an ear-tag or sonar device could be used as either a visual indicator that the man is currently under assessment, or as a tracking device to trace his migration during the evening.

Perhaps a car alarm type device could be utilized.  If you need to excuse yourself from the conversation to use the ladies room, or begin assessment on another man, you would simply activate the alarm by pressing a button that’s conveniently located on your key chain, “chirp-chirp.”  If another woman approaches the man, a loud warning would sound.  “Please step away from the man. This man is currently under assessment.  If you do not step away from the man, an alarm will sound and the authorities will be notified.”

If the other woman persists, an additional, yet silent, alarm would be activated.  When the second alarm is set-off, the area would be swarmed by the older female members of your family, who would employ harassing and shaming techniques until the intruder retreats.

The intimidation techniques they use would include: waving a rolled-up newspaper, aggressive and loud hand clapping and foot stomping, and hollering, “Shoo! We’re trying to marry-off this girl.  She’s almost forty years old, for heaven’s sake.  Scram!”  If necessary, they will take a few quick combative steps toward the intruder to indicate that they are willing to chase her into the parking lot.

Survival of the Fittest from Grumblings - by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk - Available March 2012

Survival of the Fittest

There is a fierce, ongoing survival of the fittest competition occurring in bars and restaurants across the country. Perhaps it’s because of the well-publicized ratio of women to men. When women are on the prowl, they often exhibit animal traits when competing for the attention of a potential dance partner, boyfriend or … husband.  With claws exposed, they are willing to fight to the social-death in order to insure their places in the dating food chain.

 Women on the prowl can be characterized into the following animal categories: the house cat, the tigress, the gazelle, the elephant, the snake, the chicken, a pack of wolves, the kangaroo, the wild boar, the hyena and the vulture.

House Cat

This species M.O. is complete indifference.  She is aloof.  She sits quietly, preening and adjusting, knowing that she will draw attention to herself by simply exuding confidence.  She is an observer.  Without warning, she will suddenly rise and leave a conversation, only to return a short time later with a new toy.

Tigress

The tigress lays low in the grass, sizing up her prey, and waits for the perfect time to pounce.  When she spots her target, she hunkers down and quietly assesses possible obstacles.  When the time is right, she springs into action. She flashes her teeth and with the lightening speed, she chases down her prey.  She grabs him by the neck, sinks her nails into his flesh and doesn’t loosen her grip until he has succumbed to her force.  Satisfied with her conquer, she licks her chops.  As she consumes her prize, she fiercely growls and swipes at the other women if they dare approach.

Gazelle

The gazelle moves with ease and beauty.  She glides through the bar.  Gracefully leaping from one conversation to the next.  She is sleek and moves at great speed.  It’s difficult for a man to catch her in the crosshairs.  But when she’s brought down, she is a beautiful prize.

Elephant

She’s clumsy, forceful and hard to escape.  She’s difficult to ignore.  She’ll demolish everything in her path.  When she selects her target, she begins to kick up gravel, lets out a thunderous roar, aggressively flaps her ears and wildly swings her trunk to knock any obstacles out of her path.  The only hope of escape is to run. 

Snake

The snake slithers up and wraps herself around a barstool and waits silently. She may rattle her tail or spit venom at any intruding woman who dares to threaten her domain.  Men approach her with caution.  It’s difficult to ascertain whether she’s harmless or deadly.  Is she toxic?  Is she a docile house pet?  Or is she just slimy? 

Chicken

The chicken wanders aimlessly, clucking, digging at the dirt, and nervously picking at the bar snacks. If engaged in a conversation, she will lay and egg with inappropriate comments, silliness or stupidity. Initially, her wackiness is endearing, but it quickly becomes a handicap when a pack of wolves invades the bar. 

 Pack of wolves

This group of women arrives at the bar in a pack with the common goal of seizing and conquering the next victim.  They work as a group.  They howl at the moon to announce their arrival.  With steely eyes they intimidate anyone who dares to enter their marked territory.  The group surrounds and then runs down their prey.  They share their prize.  If one wolf becomes too greedy, she will be cast out of the pack and forced to fend on her own.

Kangaroo

She seems carefree.  She’s lively and bouncy and happily hops around the bar. Her pouch is filled with perkiness.  But an unwelcome intruder should never let down her guard, the kangaroo can knock down any competition with the force of her tail.

Wild Boar

The wild boar charges through the bar and forces herself into conversations.  She interrupts, spewing unsolicited, uninteresting facts until the group disperses and climbs up into safe territory where they know she can’t get to them.  She’ll persist for a while until she gets tired or spots another victim.

 Hyena

The hyena is loud, laughing hysterically, overly enthusiastic about nothing in particular. She draws attention to herself.  Is her behavior fun or is it embarrassing?  She has the ability to scare off the faint of heart.  Anyone who wants to have a good time gravitates toward the hyena.

Vulture

The vulture circles the bar searching for her prey.  She is in search of someone who’s wounded or weak. She swoops down out of nowhere and takes the victim by surprise.  She relentlessly bombards him with her intentions, over and over, until he his rendered helpless and has no option other than buying her a drink or asking for her telephone number.

Whichever the category she falls into, each woman must stay alert and be aware of her actions and her surroundings at all times. If she lets her guard down or displays any signs of weakness she will quickly turn from the hunter, to the hunted, or worse, the road kill that passers-by swerve to avoid.

Drop in Visitor From: Grumblings... By the Author of Paula Takes a Risk - Available March 2012

Drop in Visitor

During a casual-flirty conversation with Roger, a co-worker, I said in an “I’m-available-ask-me-out-on-a-date” kind of way,  “When you’re in the neighborhood sometime, you should drop by.”  What I really meant was, “If you’re going to be in the neighborhood, call me at least an hour before you plan on coming by.”  I thought it was implied.  Fire a warning shot.  Give me a chance to straighten up the house and hide those items that might cause me some embarrassment or require an explanation if seen. 

So, at ten o’clock on Saturday morning, while I was skulking around the house wearing paint-stained sweatpants, a pajama top, and a pair of brown knee-hi argyle socks, the doorbell rang.  I put on a baseball cap to hide my severe case of bedhead and opened the door just a crack, knowing that I would quickly turn away whoever was on the other side. I figured it was my annoying neighbor or someone selling magazine subscriptions.  No such luck.  It was Roger. 

“Oh, what a surprise …” I said, forcing a smile.

“You said to drop by anytime.  So, here I am.” He held out his arms as if to say “ta-da.”

“Yes, you are.”  I stared blankly at him.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh … sure.”  What could I do? I opened the door and ushered him into the living room. “Excuse the mess … it’s the weekend, you know.”

“Did I catch you in the middle of folding your laundry?” He motioned to the basket of laundry that had been sitting on the living room floor since I had brought it in from the laundry room five days earlier.

“Oh,”  Think fast, “ yes ... that’s okay.  I’ll finish it later.”  The truth was that I was going to have to put it in the dryer again to get rid of the now imbedded wrinkles.

I smiled.  Suddenly, I remembered that I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet.  I knew that I would have to practice the inhaling-speaking technique.  It always gives me the hiccups.

He settled onto the couch.  He smiled and took a sweeping look at me. 

Oh God!  My clothes!  I flashed back to Halloween in the early 1970s when I dressed like a hobo and I had worn something similar to what I had on.

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?  I have to check something in the other room.  I’ll be right back.”

I quickly escaped into my bedroom.  It was a mess.  The bed was unmade.  I threw the bedspread over the tangled sheets.  All the bureau drawers were open, and clothes that needed to be taken to the dry cleaner were piled on the floor.  A box of frosted shredded mini wheats was next to the bed.

I flung open the closet.  What should I wear?  What should I wear? Roger had only seen me wearing business clothes.  Perhaps, something casual. I’ll show him my sporty side.  Jeans. Oh no, my current-size-jeans were in the laundry basket in the living room.  I spotted another pair toward the back of the closet.  As I reached for them, I knew that it was going to be a struggle.  This pair of jeans was a size, or two, smaller than I was that day.

“So,” I yelled from my bedroom “What brings you to my neighborhood today?”

“I got an early start today and had to drop something off at a friends house.  He lives right around the corner from you.  So, here I am.”

“Um-hum …” I grunted, as I continued to yank at the zipper on my pants.  I laid down on the bed.  Concentrate!  “I’ll be there in a minute.”  Finally, After a few more seconds of testing my upper body strength and sustaining severe thumb and forefinger cramps, the zipper was up.  I threw on a baggy sweater to cover the tummy glob that was oozing over the waistband of my pants.

“I’ll be right there.”  I walked past the living room and held up one finger through the doorway. 

I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth.  I hope he doesn’t ask to use the bathroom.  There were towels on the floor, toothpaste in the sink, various sleep aid and laxative boxes on the sink.  I picked up a towel and wiped out the sink and opened a drawer and swept everything else in.

I took off the baseball cap and looked in the mirror.  I no longer had bedhead, my hair was now plastered against my skull.  Oh great.  Isn’t this pretty?  I was horrified to see the under-eye make-up remnants, along with the multiple encrusted dollops of zit cream that had been strategically placed on my chin and forehead. Really pretty.  I washed my face, brushed my teeth, rearranged my hair and quickly applied some natural-look make-up.

As I walked into the living room, I picked up the newspapers and magazines and three pairs of shoes that had been kicked-off after I had come home from work on Monday, Thursday and Friday.  Wednesday I worked from home. Friday I wore the same pair of shoes that I had worn on Tuesday.

            “So, what do you have planned for the day?” I sat down on the couch.

He started, “Well, I thought that I’d come by and …” I didn’t hear another word.  While he was speaking, I looked across the room and noticed one of my bras hanging on the doorknob. I had put it there to air dry after I had washed it.

Roger noticed that he no longer had my attention.  “Are you alright?”

I was focused on the bra.  “What? … Uh, yes. What were you saying?”  Think fast! I stood up, crossed the room and sat down in a chair next to the bra.  I casually reached back, grabbed the bra and tucked it under my sweater.

Roger continued, “I thought that I’d just stop by and say hello.”

Is that it?  Stop by to say hello? Aren’t you going to ask me out for breakfast? “What about a cup of coffee?” Did I say that out loud?

“I’d love some.” He smiled.

Damn!

I stood up and started walking toward the kitchen.  Roger stood up to follow me. Uh-oh!  My mind flashed on the mess in and around the kitchen sink.  What now?

As Roger started to follow me, I stopped in my tracks. “You know what?” I blurted.  “I’m out of coffee.”

Roger looked puzzled, “Oh … well, I suppose we could go out to get-”

“Great!” I turned around and walked him toward the door.  Then I suggested that he step outside while I set the burglar alarm.  I needed a diversion.  “I’ll be there in a minute.”  When Roger was out of sight, I fished around under my sweater, pulled the bra out and hung it on the doorknob on my way out of the house.

 

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

Order Food

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Thanks
Randi

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

I’ll Make Dinner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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