Hilarious youtube for Paula Takes a Risk

Watch the new youtube video for Paula Takes A Risk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9t2X0TQCBJY

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)

Self publishing is not so scary

So, I wrote this book - Paula Takes a Risk. I actually wrote a number of years ago and for many reasons held onto it for years. Sure I think Im hilarious and smart and can tell a story with flair - but would anyone else?  Who knows? Also - I LOVE my characters, Paula Tenenbaum, her mother Dorothy, Larry the slimeball, Brad the narcisist and especially the smaller characters Darla Merriweather, the dunce-y actress and Pricilla Van der Hoven, the celebrity colomnist. They were mine. My creation, my children, if you will. I was afraid to put them out there to be jugded. What if some knocked them down and stole their lunch money?

Then I thought - again (and again and again) how tired and aggeravated I was by working my day to day job in a field that parallels being on sleep aids.  I couldnt believe that I was put on this earth to do what I was spending 40 hours each week doing. 

I dont know if I was stung by something or it was something that I ate, but I had an epiphany - I need to be the ruler of my own destiny, I thought. If I dont take a risk and do something that will truly make me happy then I have no right to complain.  After all, poverty is a problem, cancer is a problem, people who drive with their blinkers on all of the time are a hazard (but I digress) - but being afraid of what people may think of my characters or the daunting task of getting a book published is NOT a problem - its a challenge, but not a problem.

In 2002 I searched and found an agent (for another book: The Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman) - yet didnt get much traction because it was a humor book and I was an unknown. I ended up publishing it on a now defunct website called Enovel. So this time - I just cut out the middle man (for now) and found a publisher who I could partner with to publish my book - Friesen Press.

The process - so far has been straight forward for the most part - and a little time consuming. I submitted the book - thinking Im a genius - no edits necessary, this will be a breeze.  Well color me wrong - because it took a copy editor and three rounds of review and "adjustment" before I signed off on it.  With some direction I selected ISBN codes, pricing, cover art (not as simple as it sounds) - and now we're about ready to send it for printing.

Next step is some promotion planning .

Paula Takes a Risk is a humor novel, a fun read. Read the synopsis on this site to get more info about the story.
I look forward to sharing this journey with you.

The Doctor’s Appointment - from The Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman, by Randi Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

The Doctor’s Appointment 

If you’re like me, the day that you are feeling sick and tired is the day when you want to see a doctor, not four weeks from then.  Why does it seem as if the doctor’s office staff is doing us a personal favor by fitting us into the appointment schedule?

It doesn’t matter what your symptoms are.  Leave the diagnosis to the professionals.  During the initial telephone call, it is Lorraine, the receptionist at your doctor’s office, who will determine the appropriate course of treatment, level of severity, and urgency of the complaint based on the answer to the most important question in medical science. “What type of insurance to do have?”

The last time I had flu symptoms, I thumbed through the book of doctors’ names and telephone numbers that had been provided to me by my insurance plan.  I selected one and called for an appointment.  After twenty minutes of pleading, I was granted an appointment time, and given a homework assignment.  “Bring your insurance card and insurance form, and your co-payment.  Arrive fifteen minutes before your appointment time.” 

I was hallucinating from a fever, but the first thing I was instructed to do entailed a scavenger hunt through my files to find an up-to-date insurance card and form. The faded, rumpled card in my wallet was the “temporary card” and I knew that it just wouldn’t do. I was pretty sure that I had the new, laminated card in an unopened envelope somewhere and the sample insurance form that came with the new employee packet in my filing cabinet.

When I arrived in the doctor’s waiting room, I tapped on the glass that separated the sick people from the office staff.  No response.  What is this about?  I heard voices and could make out figures on the other side.  I spotted the little bell that was just sitting on the ledge, begging to be rung.  Although the hand written index card that was taped to the glass had explicit instructions not to ring the bell, I rang it anyway. Lorraine slid open the miniature shower door and looked up from her subterranean receptionist area.  The expression on her face yelled “WHAT!?”

Apologetically, I reported my name and appointment time. She pretended to look for my chart and pushed a few keys on the computer keyboard.  With a heavy exhale, Lorraine growled, “Just a minute” and slid to glass shut again. 

Should I just stand here?  Go sit down?  I knew that I wasn’t guilty of anything, yet I was nervous.  I’ve had the same feeling while waiting to go through international customs at the airport.

The glass patrician opened again.  “Did you bring your insurance card?”  Lorraine held her hand out.

Nervously, I shuffled through my papers and then handed it to her. 

“I’ll make a copy for your chart.”  Without taking a breath she continued, “Your co-payment is fifteen dollars.  I’ll collect it when you leave.”  She pointed to the waiting area.   “Have a seat.”

When the glass window slid open again, everyone in the waiting room anxiously looked up, hoping that he or she would be the next one called.  When I heard my name called, I proudly perked up.  But, it was a false alarm.  Damn.  I wasn’t allowed to see the doctor yet.  Lorraine gave me another assignment, a pop quiz.

“Here.” She handed me a clipboard with questionnaire on it. “Have a seat and complete both sides of the form, sign it and bring it back to me when you’re done.”   A pen was attached to the clipboard with a string that was so short that it made it impossible to hold the pen upright, not to mention, reach the bottom of the questionnaire.

When I had finished, I handed the clipboard and questionnaire to Lorraine. She reviewed it for mistakes as if she was checking the answers on the written driver’s license test.  She motioned to the chairs behind me and told me to have a seat again. 

Forty minutes later, when Lorraine opened the door to the Promised Land of examination rooms and called my name, my heart leapt.  I nervously replaced the June 1971 edition of Hi-lights Magazine on the table, picked up my purse, and obediently followed her into the back office.  She opened a door, ushered me into a sterile looking room and told me the doctor would be with me shortly.

In order to speed the process along, I got undressed and hung my clothes on the hook on the back of the door.  When the doctor walked into the room and looked at me, his mouth dropped open.  He looked at me in disbelief.  I began to worry.  I must look very sick.

When I asked him why he looked so shocked, he asked me, “Do you know why you’re here?”

Oh my God!  Imagine my embarrassment when I realized that in my feverish hallucinatory state, I had mistakenly made an emergency appointment with a dentist.

 

Lunch with a Demon - from The Grumblings of a chronically Single Woman by Randi M Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Lunch with a Demon

A simple lunch with a friend can turn into the emotional roller coaster to hell for the victim of PMS demon.  The demon has a mind of its own and will do everything possible to have itself heard.  The victim is forced to keep the demon at bay while sorting through her erratic premenstrual thoughts and selecting the appropriate, socially acceptable responses.  She must also fight the desire to unbutton her skirt or kick off her shoes because of the pain due to premenstrual swelling.  All, while staving off an impromptu crying jag and trying to appear sane.

I looked at my watch.  Jonathan was fifteen minutes late. If he is not here in five minute, I’m leaving.  The hell with him!  My PMS mind was racing.  He hates me.  He’s doing this on purpose.  He does not have respect for my time.  He obviously doesn’t think that I am important enough for him to show up on time.  When he gets here, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

Just as my blood pressure had hit an all time high, Jonathan walked in.  “Hi.  I’m sorry that I’m late. I stopped to buy these flowers for you.”  He handed the bouquet to me and kissed me on the cheek.

My rage disappeared.  “Oh, are you late?” I melted. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He motioned to the hostess and indicated that there were two for lunch.  She grabbed some menus and asked us to follow her.  When we reached our table she smiled at Jonathan and said, “Here we go.  Is this okay?”

I thought, What the hell are you looking at!  But I said, “This is fine.”

When we sat down, Jonathan took my hand and gazed at me.  “You look pretty.  I’ve missed you.”

You’re smothering me!  “I’ve missed you, too.” I put my hand over his.

He smiled and asked, “How is your day going?  Have you been doing anything interesting?”

What the hell do you mean by that?  Don’t placate me!  You’re not the only person who has something interesting to say.  I’m very interesting.  “Oh, my day?” I said, “It’s fine.  Same ole’, same ole’.  Nothing’s new.  How about with you?”

Jonathan told me about a recent episode he had with his ex-wife and the expenses of maintaining the two households. 

I was hardly listening.  The PMS demons were annoyed by the conversation.  Me, me, me.  You’re so self-absorbed. No wonder she divorced you.  I forced a smile, “I’m sure that things will get better for you. You just have to remain positive.”

He looked at the menu, “Are you going to getting the Salad Nicoise?”

What in the hell do you mean by that?  Is this your subtle way of telling me I’m fat? 

He continued, “I hear it’s great here and I know how much you like it.  I think that I will have it as well.”

Nice try, Jonathan.  No one is going to tell me what to do or what I should eat.  Then I opened the menu.  There was too much to choose from.  I was in no condition to make a decision.  “I’ll have the same.”

He noticed that I was uncharacteristically quiet and asked me, “Are you all right?  Is there anything wrong?’

My hormones were raging and my eyes welled up with tears.  It’s about time you noticed. “Nothing.  I’m fine.” I sucked in my breath and tried to hold back but I couldn’t help myself.  I started to cry.  The more I tried to compose myself, the worse it got.  I got the hiccups.  After several glasses of water and five minutes of a relaxation breathing exercise, they subsided, and I apologized. “I’m sorry.  I’m just a little premenstrual.”

He smiled sweetly and patted my hand.  “Oh, I understand, honey.”

Honey?  Don’t honey me!  You don’t understand a damned thing!  “Thanks for understanding.”

At the next table a woman was trying to calm her child who was pounding his spoon on the table.  Jonathan turned to look at the commotion.  When he turned back to me he had a big smile on his face.  “Children are so wonderful.”  He motioned to the toddler, “Isn’t he cute?”

The kid is a brat and the mother should be flogged for bringing him into a restauant.  “He’s adorable.” I smiled.

Jonathan leaned in. “How do you feel about children?”

I was panicked. Aah! Get me out of here!  I calmed myself. “They’re wonderful.”  I changed to subject.  “Is that a new tie?” 

It seemed to be a safe subject.  That is, unless his ex-wife bought it for him.

Gym-nausea - from The Grumblings of... by Randi M Sherman, the authorof Paula Takes a Risk, Available 2012

Gym-nausea

It has been said that getting to the gym is half the battle.  I view the whole gym experience as a test of courage. The benefits of working out should outweigh the hand to hand combat with an exercise bra or the risk being killed in a stampede of people who want to get closer to the mirror. I want to be healthy and fit, but I’m not willing to get into a chick-fight over who got to the treadmill machine first. 

I’m the type of gym-goer who will circle the parking lot for twenty minutes until a space close to the door is available.  It’s considered a successful gym experience if I make it through an entire workout without the need for recitation.

When I arrived at the gym, I headed for the locker room to change into my exercise togs.  Making my way through the steamy room that was filled with naked women and high pitched hum of hair blow dryers, I located my assigned locker. It was a narrow opening in the wall that was designed to hold a maximum of one set of keys, a gym membership card and a wire hanger if its placed in the vertical position. Across from the lockers and bolted to the floor are balance beams that are supposed to be used as benches.  I knew that if focused my concentration on balance and form, I could make it through the entire dressing routine and land a clean dismount.  After which, I would jump up, arch my back and throw my hands in the air to await the judges scores.

It was time to change into my brand new gym-appropriate apparel.   The activity of putting on these clothes is an exercise in itself.  I thought of employing the assistance of a larger, stronger gym member to “spot” me while I squeezed into the rubber band that had been fashioned as an exercise bra.  The first step was to identify the front of the bra.  I took a deep breath and with all of my upper body strength, I stretched the elastic around my wrists and wrestled it over my head and shoulders, taking care not to dislocate a limb or pull a muscle.

Once the bra was in place, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I adjusted my breasts to a level position and tucked any noticeable back-fat and excess lateral-chest-bulk under the elastic.  I was hopeful that the red marks from the struggle would soon fade.  At that point, I was a little light headed and needed to sit down, catch my breath and eat a mocha flavored energy bar.

There are two main styles of exercise bras.  One type is more utilitarian than the other.  The first presses the breasts so flat that by comparison, a mammogram seems comfortable.  It binds the breasts so close to the chest that they are, not only immobile, they are no longer distinguishable.  The other style of exercise bra is more fashionable.  It supports and lifts the breasts to give them a fuller perkier appearance.  Depending on the adjustment, this bra can lift the breasts so high that they might impede vision and range of motion. With the proper adjustment of this bra, the cleavage could be used as a hands-free water bottle holder.

Next, I tackled the spandex shorts. Could they be any smaller? Off of the body, they look like a pair of Capri pants from Barbie’s summer wardrobe. Once on the body, they look like sausage casing.  Using maximum shoulder and arm strength along with the contraction of my abdomen and butt muscles, I yanked and pulled the shorts up my body. So much for my upper body workout, I thought.  Once the shorts were in place, my thighs begin to swell out of the bottom.  And above the waistband, don’t ask.  The excess skin and weight around my mid section, made it look as if my spandex shorts had had an atomic explosion.  I covered it all with a giant T-shirt and headed out to the circuit training equipment.

The most daunting piece of equipment in the gym is the scale. Why is the scale located in the middle of everything?  I broke into a sweat as I approached.  Weighing myself has never been as simple as just stepping on the scale and sliding the balance weights to the “you-weigh-this-much” position.

No matter how lethargic or sluggish I was, the fastest and most coordinated maneuver that I made in the gym was stepping on the scale, measuring, and then stepping off of it without leaving any evidence of my true weight. I have developed a highly choreographed routine for using the scales at the gym.  I call it the “step-measure-sigh-step-slide.” Here’s how I do it. I concentrate on my breathing as I scan the room to see who is standing within eye-shot of the scale.  In one fluid motion, I step onto the scale, manipulate the balance weights, suffer from massive depression and then step off again.  While stepping off, I simultaneously slide the balance weights back to the zero position.  If by chance, I draw attention to myself with either a misstep or a whimper, I force a smile, wipe the tears from my eyes and announce, “Weight doesn’t matter to me. It’s the tone and muscle mass that I’m concerned with.”  If pressed, I may say that I’m retaining water.  If the gym-goers are still not convinced, I resort to the explanation, “I’ve been constipated for a week.”

The “regulars” at the gym are very territorial.  It is not a good idea to break into their circuit routine. I innocently approached the Butt Buster device.  I was just about ready to adjust the weights on it, I heard a high-pitched voice.  “I’m using that machine.” 

I looked at the machine.  I didn’t see anyone.  Was I hallucinating?  After all, my new exercise bra was very tight and might have been limiting the blood supply to my brain.  Then I heard the voice again, “I said, I’m using that!” 

I looked once more. Still, I saw no one. Gee.  I thought, This woman is very thin.  I can’t even see her. 

From the lounge area, across the gym, I heard the voice again. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”  I was startled.  I looked up and saw what appeared to be a walking make-up counter with a hair scrunchy, and a butt thong waving her arms, shooing me away from her machine.  “Don’t touch it!  I have the weight and height set just right. I’m just resting for a minute.  I should be done in a few minutes.  Geeze.”  Then she looked me up and down, rolled her eyes and returned to her power drink.

While examining the bruising on my body that was caused by the elastic of my exercise clothes, I was nearly trampled to death by a herd Neanderthals who were jockeying for position in front of the mirror.  I stood there in amazement.  I realized that mirror-posing is a serious business.  Evidently, once the right pose is selected, the posers are required to gaze at their reflections with love and affection.  They appeared to be flirting with themselves. “You’re so big and strong, handsome and courageous.” And that’s just the women.

Among the various gym-goers, there are those people who go to the gym just to be seen.  They don’t seem to exercise at all.  It was impossible to use several machines because they were being used a nightclub.  Clicks of the beautiful people were hanging over and leaning against the equipment while flexing, flirting and making dinner plans.

I approached the leg-lift machine where a woman was sitting.  She was talking into her cellular telephone.  She held up her hand to let me know that I was interrupting her conversation. 

I decided to skip the weight training portion of my workout.  I went to the cardiovascular area only to find a group of women who had set their treadmills on browsing-speed.  They strolled along for about thirty minutes. 

As I stood there waiting, I looked around the gym.  My attention was drawn to a group of red-faced men who were grunting and groaning as they lifted weights. Call me naive but, if something is so heavy that is could cause a hernia or an exploding aneurysm, put it down. 

There was a height-weight chart pinned to the wall.  Upon examination, I realized that I am five inches too short for my weight.  I became depressed and decided to go home. 

Later, I laughed to myself when I realized that fashions and the idea of beauty are forever changing.  I figured that ten years from now, the height-weight chart would be completely revised.  After extensive studies regarding the benefits of potato chips and glazed buttermilk donuts, scientist will discover that we were all fifty to one hundred pounds under weight.  Spandex will be outlawed.  It will be declared that the massive consumption of green leafy vegetables coupled with exercise, energy bars and butt thongs will have contributed to the early death of hundreds of thousands Americans. And because of the limited amount of fabric necessary to make clothing, less textiles and fewer garment workers will be needed. Which will result in the crippling of the U.S. economy.

An hour had passed.  I had gone to the gym.  Although, I never actually worked out, I did get points for going.  I had determined the future trends in beauty, healthcare and the economy.   I had worked up quite an appetite.  It was time for a snack.

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.

Saturday, I was Invisible -from Grumblings...by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Saturday, I was Invisible

 

One Saturday night, not too long ago, a group of coworkers and I went to a trendy club in a trendy neighborhood for some trendy drinks and dancing.  When we arrived at a club, the group dispersed and I was left alone.  I found an empty barstool and sat down.  A few minutes later, a man approached me, smiled and asked me, “Is that barstool taken?”  I looked to my left and to my right.  Both stools were being used.  I looked up to answer him and noticed he was pointing at the stool that I was sitting on.

That’s odd.  I was confused.  “I’m sitting here.”

“Oh.” he said and walked away.

I attempted to get the attention of the bartender.  “Excuse me,” didn’t work.  Waving my hand didn’t work.  Waving a twenty-dollar bill didn’t work.  But when a woman who had tattoos on her neck and glitter in her hair leaned across the bar, grabbed the bartender by the arm and shoved her tongue down is throat, I figured, Well, at least he is within shouting range.  I tapped her on the shoulder and thanked her.  She looked past me like I wasn’t there.

As people passed by, they knocked, pushed and shoved me.  When a huge bald man in a mesh shirt jabbed me in the kidneys with his elbow, I was convinced that I had stumbled upon the tryouts for the World Wrestling Federation. 

After being completely ignored for about a half an hour, I figured it out.  I realized that for all intent and purpose, I was invisible.  So, why not take advantage of my invisible status?  I watched the action around me and realized that everyone was working very hard to gain the attention of others.  I observed overt flirting, solicitous giggling, and animated conversation.

 Since I was invisible, I decided that I had the perfect opportunity to try an experiment.  I spent the rest of the evening trying to get the attention of the visible people by using the techniques that I have always found annoying and distasteful. 

I started a conversation with a man who clearly did not want to talk to me.  He was trying very hard to get away from me.  All he wanted to do was order drinks from the bartender and going back to his girlfriend.

“Hi.” I started.

He ignored me.

“I said, hi.” I waved my hand in front of his face.

“What?”  He seemed annoyed.  “Oh, hi.”

I pressed on.  “What’s your name?” 

He didn’t answer.

“You look like a Bob.” I pushed, “Is it alright if I call you Bob?”

“What? … Whatever.” He leaned over the bar and flagged down the bartender.

“Bob, do you like it here, at this club?  It’s my first time here.”

“Bob?” He didn’t answer.

“Bob … Bob.”  Then in a sing-songy voice, “Bobby, are you ignoring me?” I waved my hand in front of his face again.

“What?” He grabbed my waving hand. “Leave me alone!”

His drinks arrived and he paid the bartender.

I pushed one more time, “Is that for me?” I reached for one of the glasses.

“Hey!” He pushed my hand away.  “Leave that alone! Leave me alone.”  He looked at me like I was crazy and walked away.

Strike one.  Whose next?  I looked around the bar.

There was a group of four very chic looking women, who all looked to be about twenty-five years old.  They were standing in a little circle.  I walked over.  At first, when they sensed that I was there, they just tightened their circle.

“Hi. Have you girls met anyone yet?” 

Nothing.

I tapped one of them on the shoulder.  She brushed off her shoulder, squinted at me and made a “Thsk” sound.

I walked around the circle and stood behind another one of the girls. “Hi.”

She ignored me.  She and her friends rolled their eyes at one another.

Then I broke through, “Boy, you sure look pretty.”

Bing!  She turned, “What?”

“I said that you’re pretty.”

Her friends giggled.

“I’m not into that. So if you don’t mind I’m having a conversation with my friends-”

“I don’t mind.” I smiled wide and continued to stand there.

They closed their circle so tight that they were practically wearing each other’s clothes.

Strike two.  Next victim.

I walked up to a woman who obviously was trying to catch the eye of a man.  She saw me coming toward her and she turned to stone.  She was clearly annoyed by my presence and completely ignored my existence.  She looked past me and over my head.  So I decided to say whatever came to my mind, speak gibberish and use animated hand gestures.  I was curious about how long she would stand there until she would either breakdown and speak to me or just walk away.

“Hi.” I said.  I proudly held my arms out and told her, “ I’m one hundred and thirty years old and I weigh twenty-three pounds.”

She ignored me.

I offered, “I like green eggs and ham.”  I couldn’t help chuckling to myself.

Nothing.

I gestured toward the bathroom and said, using a serious voice, “flippita-yippity-yakka-pippy-pa-poo.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to another and exhaled through her nose.  Still, she continued to ignore me.  She was a pro.

Just as I was about launch into my rendition of the Barney Song, she smiled at a man who was about ten feet away.  She pushed me aside and walked away.

Strike three.

I went back to the bar and looked around.  I noticed that most of the women who were getting attention were very body-aware.  They were rubbing their hands up and down their arms and body and through their hair.  Okay, I thought.  I could do that. I pulled off my sweater, revealing my T-shirt. I continued.  I stretched my neck and let out a little sigh. Then, I rubbed my hands up my torso and lightly cupped my breasts.  That got the attention from the man next to me.  I coyly looked at him.

He looked at my hands, then at my face, “Hi there.”

“Hi, yourself.” I exhaled heavily.

“Do you need any help with that?” he offered as he motioned, with his eyes, toward my chest.

“No thanks” I smiled,  “I’ve got ‘em.”

Just then, the group of people who I arrived at the club with, walked up.  One of them said, “We’re ready to leave?  By the way, we’ve been watching you. You certainly are popular.”

An Invitation for Dinner from The Grumblings of a chronically single woman by Randi M Sherman Author of Paula Takes A Risk due out March 2012

An Invitation for Dinner

Many people assume that just because I live alone and appear to be healthy and well fed, I must know how to cook for myself.  At best, my talent for cooking is embarrassing, if not dangerous.  Every time I have attempted to prepare a meal or an oven related snack, it has ended up being a disaster.  The smoke alarm is a common sound emanating my home. 

At first, I thought that the smoke detectors in my house were overly sensitive, and reacted from the slightest signs of exhaust from the kitchen.  But after I had moved my residence two or three times and each of the smoke alarms were still set off every time I approached a heating mechanism, I realized that the problem must be my cooking techniques.  For a while I refused to give up my attempts at cooking. I figured that if I cooked really fast, I would not give the smoke alarm enough time to detect that I was in the kitchen.  But that didn’t work.  I began using the smoke alarm as a cooking timer.  I would begin preparing some food, and when the alarm sounded, I knew that it was time to flip it over and continue cooking for an additional five minutes.  Fearing for my life and the buildings adjacent to mine, friends and neighbors began pleading with me to give up my attempts at learning how to cook.  I conceded.

I have learned that there are three things that every unmarried non-cook should have in order to avoid starvation: a microwave oven, a car, and friends who cook.

The microwave oven is the only appliance in my kitchen that doesn’t have to be dusted.  This kitchen-wonder can save a person from starvation in less than eight minutes.  Its response is faster than that of a 911 emergency call.  I have found that the only skills I need, in relation to the using my microwave, are the abilities to peel back a corner or pierce the plastic film with a fork.  Pop the container into the microwave oven, set the timer, press start and then Voila! Dinner is served.

            Occasionally my body revolts against all of the salt and preservatives that are contained in freezer burned, re-heatable, eight-minute entrees.  I’m pretty sure that, by now, I have developed a shelf life of my own.  When the puffiness and bloating from Propyl Gallate and Modified Food Starch start taking a toll on my body, that’s the time when I turn to my car for assistance.

Either, I leaf through the take-out menus on my desk and place a call for food delivery or simply climb into the driver’s seat of my car, start the ignition, point the car in the direction of a fast food restaurant and drive on through.  It’s always important to order a salad for roughage, and for good measure.  Dressing on the side. I realize that this may not be the healthiest way to eat, but at least it’s hot and it does not require clean up.

            Truly, the best gift an unmarried non-cook can receive is not a cookbook but an invitation for dinner.  After months of eating out, driving through, ordering in and microwaving restaurant leftovers, a friend’s invitation for a home cooked meal is a welcome one.

            A well timed telephone call or surprise drop in visit can elicit a sincere dinner invitation where some, if not all, of the basic food groups will be served.  The meal is served on normal dishes with actual silverware.  Not microwaveable, throw-away cookware and plastic eating utensils.  No greasy paper bags and crumpled napkins. Oh, the thrill.  Don’t misunderstand me, this is not a manipulation of my friends’ good nature and hospitality.  They are all aware of my culinary handicap.  Besides, they’re genuinely concerned for my health.

I thank the heavens for friends, their generosity and their cooking skills.  Friends’ who cook usually fall into one of two categories. They are either married and are preparing dinner for their families anyhow and would enjoy some outside stimulation from a dinner guest.  Or, they are single, enjoy cooking, and welcome a dinner companion.

To ensure a second or third invitation, I, as the dinner guest, display proper manners and gratitude. I offer to clear the table and help with the dishes.  I try to monitor the hostess’ level of exhaustion, in an effort to leave before I overstay my welcome. To show my appreciation I keep a supply of wine, (along with decorative gift bags, gift tags, and a felt tip pen) in the trunk of my car to be offered as hostess gifts.  And, I’m nice to their cats.

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.