The Age of Not Believing

Remember “Bedknobs and Broomsticks?” Remember the song Angela Landsbury (Miss Price) sings to the children as they are getting ready to embark on their bedknob-led adventure? Charlie doesn’t want to have anything to do with the project, calls it a lot of “rubbish” and Miss Price explains he is at the “Age of Not Believing.” He isn’t about to believe that bedknob is capable of transporting them to a magical place.

Check it out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbyFbJFjhxk

I’m at a stage in the middle-aged dating game where I find myself doubting whether there are any good guys left, and whether I’ll ever be able to find them. I’m trying to keep a firm grasp on the fantasy of love, devotion and the possibility of happily-ever-after, but men themselves are sabotaging the dream.
So, I’m right there with you, Charlie. Smack in the middle of the Age of Not Believing.

The Age of Not Believing

When you rush around in hopeless circles

searching everywhere for something true,

you’re at the Age of Not Believing,

when all the make-believe is through.

When you set aside your childhood heroes

and your dreams are lost upon a shelf,

you’re at the Age of Not Believing.

Worst of all, you doubt yourself.

You’re a castaway where no one hears you

on a barren isle in a lonely sea.

Where did all the happy endings go?

Where can all the good times be?

You must face the Age of Not Believing,

doubting everything you ever knew,

until at last you start believing

there’s something wonderful in you!

I hate becoming cynical, but that’s what’s happening. I find a guy who is nice, funny, interesting and reasonably good-looking, and it turns out he’s gay. I find one who is obviously not gay, and he turns out to be a womanizer who is collecting notches on his belt. I find one who seems right in nearly every way and it turns out he thinks sending a three-word text message every other day is going to cut it in the communication department. Is he disinterested? Why bother texting at all?

I won’t even talk about the men who are so soured on women in general, thanks to the behavior of their ex-wives, that they see red flags in everything you say:

“Let’s see a movie after dinner.” She’s a spendthrift. Does she think I’m made of money?

“I’m not going to have sex with you on the first date. I hardly know you!” She’s frigid and hates sex.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing my kids over Christmas.” She is too attached to her kids and they’ll always come between us.

“I haven’t heard from you all week! I missed you!” She’s needy and clingy.

“Yes, thanks, I’d love to stop for an ice cream cone.” She has an eating problem.

Are there any nice, normal men out there who are looking for a nice, normal woman to love? Send him at once! I need rescuing from the black hole of the Age of Not Believing.

Heeeeellllllllp, Miss Price!

Number one danger of gym membership

I had a revelation yesterday when I read about the origin of the word, “gymnastics.” It comes from the Greek word gumnazein, meaning “to train naked.”

According to Encarta, “Greek athletes trained in the nude to allow their bodies’ maximum flexibility. The early Olympic track meets and wrestling tournaments featured nude athletes. ‘Gymnasium’ and ‘gym’ share the same origins and originally referred to places where naked exercises are done.”
So, there you go. This totally explains my aversion to sports and working out at the gym. I’m afraid I’ll just get into it and someone will decide we should go back to the original outfits.

There's nothing you can't handle with the Chocolate IV

My daughter was getting ready to leave for work and was licking something from a spoon. She explained, “It’s chocolate frosting. Dealing with all the cranky people I have to deal with right now, I need all the chocolate I can get.”
Molly’s office isn’t the only place where people could use a lot more chocolate. The holidays can be so stressful for everyone. Think of last-minute Christmas shopping, insanely long school programs and recitals, dinners with relatives and grumpy customers. That’s why I’ve invented yet another a little lifesaver. I’m calling it the Chocolate IV.

Chocolate IV users will enjoy the benefits of a continual drip of rich brown goodness right into their bloodstream, improving their tolerance levels and general outlook. The neck will prove the ideal place for the unobtrusive port, as it offers a straight shot to the brain, which is the organ most pleasantly affected by the consumption of the caffeine-fat-sugar combo.
No more frosting on spoons. No more telltale candy bar wrappers on your desk. No more sticky hands, or chocolate stains on your favorite blouse. Think of the ease! After simply plugging in the IV, an instant and satisfying buzz will light up the brain without all that annoying and time consuming unwrapping.

I envision the basic Chocolate IV set-up including an unobtrusive IV stand easily rolled along beside oneself or positioned discretely beside one’s desk chair. For those who move around a great deal or frequently contend with stairs, an upgrade to a canister backpack may be in order. Perfect with every outfit, the Chocolate IV Canister Backpack will allow unlimited mobility without sacrificing the mood-enhancing benefits.

For those occasions when you don’t want anyone to know your personality is dependent upon the Chocolate IV, a soft body bag could be strapped under your clothes and an IV tube snaked up through your clothes to the port.

After a blind date, a guy might tell his friend, “I really liked her. I could tell she was wearing a chocolate bag, but she never plugged it in. I watched her port and it was open all evening.”

Let us embrace the Chocolate IV this holiday season and make the world a kinder, sweeter place.
Every day is a Chocolate Day with Chocolate IV.

Out with the skinny clothes

My closet was packed, and yet I could find nothing to wear for my date last weekend. I decided the problem was my summer clothes were shielding the winter things from view. I’ve never had a large enough wardrobe that I felt the need to store off-season clothes. I’ve always just pushed them to the sides. Since discovering the magical world of QVC about a year ago, however, the situation has changed. Do we have to talk about the fact that I also gained about 40 pounds during the past year? Let’s just say that I’ve been remodeling my figure, one candy bar at a time.
So, I gathered some plastic tubs and began a total closet overhaul. I pulled all my lovely summer things, packing them carefully, vowing to be too thin for them next year. I threw away anything that could be called a lawn mowing or paint shirt. How many of those does a person need, after all? I made a stack of things I knew I’d never wear again to donate to the thrift shop.
Even after all that weeding, I saw that there still was nothing to wear, so I packed away everything that had “shrunk” since last winter. Two tubs full of gorgeous sweaters, nice slacks and cute tops. And I wasn’t even skinny when I used to wear those. Oh, heavens to Betsy, this was depressing. Time for a restorative cookie break.
Now my closet is cavernous, containing a handful of voluminous tops – all black, it seems – and zillions of hangers. Heck, toss in a hotplate and I could take in a boarder.
So, what’s the plan? I need to get back into those clothes that I love. I hate to admit to you that I packed tops that still had tags attached. I’m sure when I got them home they were a teensy bit snug but I was going to diet myself into them. Dream on!
While I wait for the miracle of weight loss to occur, I’m going to continue to watch QVC faithfully, holding tightly to the hosts’ promises of slimming lines and flattering colors. I’m sure a few new well-cut tops in beautiful colors will improve my confidence and resolve.
I just pray the new wardrobe never becomes my "skinny clothes."

Frosty rose hips

Do-it-yourself operation a success, patient alive

Skin tags.
I know you don’t want to talk about them, but we have to. You have the little protruding skin globs on your neck, in your armpits and in the groin area right where your panty elastic rubs. I know, I know, so did I, honey.
They say skin tags often grow where there is a lot of friction. That totally explains the groin area in my case. We’re talking friction and we’re talking heat. If you stop to talk with me when I’m exercising on a hot day, don’t be alarmed if you smell pork roast.
I had two skin tags that were so irritating, I was seriously considering giving up underwear altogether. And they felt huge, like golf balls. In a blurry, over-caffeinated moment I allowed myself to wonder whether I might be sprouting testicles.
One day I was chatting online with a friend and mentioned that I had some skin tags that I wanted to have removed, but I hated to have to pay for a doctor visit beings as how I’m unemployed and all.
She said, “Cut them off yourself! Go online for directions and just do it.”
Naturally I stopped everything and did a search: removing skin tags. Turns out she was right. People do it. And the procedure is simple. Pull the sucker out with fingers or tweezers, and cut it off. Who knew?
So I gathered some surgery tools and proceeded to the bathroom. I assembled cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, Band-Aids and triple antibiotic cream. I sterilized my haircutting scissors with the alcohol, took a deep breath and reviewed the surgery instructions: Grab onto it and cut it off. Got it. OK. I made short work of the couple of tags under my arms and one on my neck, snip, snip.
Now it was time for the serious stuff. Under the watchful eyes of my surgical team, Zoe and Jigs, I hiked my leg up onto the counter and examined the area of interest with the largest hand mirror I own.
Where were the golf balls? How could something so tiny cause so much discomfort?
I had a hand for grasping the offending skin tag, a hand for cutting it off, but where was the hand for holding the mirror? If I couldn’t use the mirror, I still needed another hand to hold my stomach out of the way so I could see what I was doing.
It seemed a fairly personal project to involve a neighbor, however well-meaning.
I looked at my surgical team. They blinked back and cocked their heads as if to say, “How about we go have a snack and think about it?”
But no one stops for snacks in the middle of an operation. I pulled out a drawer and propped the hand mirror at a perfect angle. Perfect. The dogs wagged their tails in appreciation of Mommy’s resourcefulness.
After the procedure it took every ounce of self control I have to talk myself out of a tummy tuck while I had the scissors sterilized and was basking in the glow of surgical success.
I’m not recommending this process to anyone. It worked for me, but you have to decide for yourself whether it is worth the risk of an infection that could drive you to the doctor where you will have to explain how you were trying to save money by performing your own outpatient surgery.
If you should decide to try it, though, my crack surgical team is available for consultation and support.