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.

 

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.

Bachelorette Shower - from Grumblings... By the Author of Paula Takes a Risk - Available March 2012

Bachelorette Shower

“The gift is in the giving.”  That’s what they say.  True-giving selflessness happens when a person does not expect anything in return for his or her actions. Sure. Okay, whatever you say.  But, after years of attending countless bridal and baby showers and purchasing one gift after another, I’ve become fed up.  How about some gift reciprocation?  Do I have to have an engagement ring or a fetus in order to receive a congratulatory gift?  Is this fair? Just because I don’t have a husband-pending doesn’t mean I don’t need mixing bowls. If you cut me, do I not bleed?  If I’m unmarried, do I not need cutlery?

I’ve lost count of the amount of times I have schlepped myself to the Pottery Barn or to a department store, in the name of friendship, to be faced with the saleswoman who is in possession of a gift registry list.  Or worse, spending thirty minutes trying to call up the list on the customer computer system that is “Out of Order.”  Not to mention the frustration of trying to decipher the meaning of M #1322 chg gls 12 or Horizon tstr bgl 1. It’s amazing to me that no matter how soon I get to the store following the wedding announcement, with the exception of the designer dishtowels and an oven-mitt-apron combination, none of the ‘affordable’ gifts on the registry list are left to purchase.

The idea of a bridal shower is fine.   But why should it be designated for only those people who have a wedding date set?  I ask you, who needs crystal stemware, dinnerware and serving pieces more than the single gal?  How am I supposed to impress a husband candidate with the chipped stoneware dishes, glassware from the gas station and my mother’s hand-me-down silverware?

Frankly, I am in need of entertainment equipment. And I think that it’s high time that there is a venue for the single woman to recoup some of her gift giving investment and collect some badly needed items.

I propose the idea of a Bachlorette Shower, a celebration of the unmarried status.  Throw a party for the woman who is single, confident and proud.  It’s a shin-dig for the woman who smiles and politely listens, without bursting into flames as her well meaning friends run down the annoying, yet benign, list of comments.

“When are you going to stop running around and settle down?”

“Poor thing.  You must be lonely.” 

“Don’t you want to get married?”

“Maybe I know someone for you.”

The agenda for the Bachelorette Shower would include the opening of congratulatory gifts which include the much needed, impressive serving pieces and crystal, and the dating essentials which include lingerie, date-outfits and gift certificates for spa treatments. In place of usual shower activities and games that include building a gift-bow bouquet and guessing a baby’s birth weight, the Bachelorette Shower would have drinking games, lively discussions about sex and a friendly competition about who has had the worst date.

It’s high time we celebrate the Bachelorette.  After spending thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours honoring those who have had life changing events, it’s time for the single woman to recoup some of her effort in the form of gifts, and well wishes from those who have benefited in the past.

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

Singles Dance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good question.