Michael Jackson vs. Farrah Faucet

No, I am not in Los Angeles trying desperately to win the Michael Jackson funeral seat lottery. And can someone please tell me why, why, why this event has 24 hour non stop news coverage? I want Martha Stewart and her tips for cutting doily roses back on my screen. I've never bought a lottery ticket in my life and really don't feel the urge to start now, especially when the prize isn't $300 million but a seat at a funeral. I didn't hear one peep about him in the last 15 years which didn't involve a creepy child sleep-over and now the world is in mourning.... Huh?

Admitedly he was a musical innovator. My son watched "Thriller" every single solitary day for months on end regardless of my screaming that the beginning scared the crap out of me. I grew up bopping around the living room to the Jackson Five, wishing me and my sister also had an act. As for "moonwalking" , I tried, tripped, and gave up, but was totally envious of anyone who could. Truthfully I always wore two white gloves, and never ever wanted a jacket with epaulets but I'm a conservative dresser.

Poor Farrah Faucet had to die on the same day as Michael. Now that's just bad luck. No one's even mentioned the poor dear and I think her Charlie's Angel hair was bigger than "moonwalking". Every girl in America wanted her blond "do"....and fab body. She deserves a little more posthumous attention in my book. Personally I can't wait for this media circus to be over. Is it funeral burn-out or am I just getting old?

What's so Happy about "Happy Hour"?

I confess it was heartbreaking. Call me shallow, superficial, vain, and obviously delusional, but I never thought a bartender could ruin my life. I was happily sitting at the bar of my Seattle hotel, sipping a mediocre yet expensive Sauvignon Blanc, looking out at the incredible view across the water and gleefully anticipating my longed for salmon dinner. I had a new shiney cell phone, and hallelujah the 2,200 mile schlep across country was behind me. I was in a cute little black dress, strappy high heels, had put on make-up, blown dry my hair,and shaved my legs, yes, both of them...sometimes I lose interest by the second one. I'm thinkin' I looked pretty cute.

Then it struck me. Exactly like the moment I realized no one called me "miss" anymore...one day out of the freaking clear blue I was "ma'am". Wham! Pow, right in the kisser, I'm dubbed "ma'am". "You talkin' to me"? I'm not a "ma'am", I' CAN'T BE "MA'AM"! Aren't I too young? Quick a mirror, I needed a mirror, the witness protection program, a plastic surgeon! My mother is a "ma'am". That older woman over there, but not me! Crap. The loss of "miss" was a milestone. Do men suffer this way?

After ordering my second glass of wine, three twenty something blond girls walked up to the bar to pay their tab. Ok, ok, I admit, they were "hotties". I would kill for their wrinkle free complexions and perky skin tone. The bartender proceeded to tell them about "happy hour and free champagne on Saturday", practically pleading with them to come back and bring their friends. "Excuse me, I'll still be at the hotel on Saturday", I wanted to blurt out. What was I "chopped liver"? What about me? Was I invisible or remind him of mom? This couldn't be happening.... I was too old for happy hour!? Quick more wine. Suddenly I had lost my desire for salmon. Oy! Then the bartender turned to me and smiled....ah ha, he obviously forgot to tell me.... I felt relieved and much much better... all that anxiety for nothing. "Ma'am would you like to close out your tab"?

Seattle, Salmon, Andy and Luis, Oh My!

No! No. NO! It couldn't happen. I survived eight states, 3 chicken caesar salads, two nights on 100 thread count sheets, and just when at long long last I reached my Seattle hotel room, my cell phone died. Dead. Doa. I burst into tears and threw myself on the bed in a fit of despair. Why me? Why now? Why why why when all I wanted was a piece of salmon?!?! I was soaking wet and in a towel when I made this shocking discovery. Crap. I can't live without a cell phone. It's the 21st century, I needed to communicate 24/7. I found myself screaming "I hate you" at the dead object. After I regained sanity I grabbed a pair of my ratty gym shorts (that are never supposed to be worn in public), pink flip flops, the shredded t-shirt I sleep in and ran down to the lobby dressing as I went. All bets of propriety/decency were off.

The concierge found the nearest AT&T store for me after I promised to finish putting on my clothes. I jumped in a cab , clutching my old cell. "I never dropped you! I kept you dry and away from large bodies of water, and this is what I get"?! I crossed two lanes of traffic and ran into the phone store throwing myself on the mercy of the man behind the counter. "Luis" was calm and thankfully didn't have me taken away in an ambulance . "Help me Luis! I need my phone numbers, my messages, SALMON"! He was so patient and I was so nuts. An hour later I left the store with a shiney red phone, a pile of re-bate paper work and his card. He sweetly told me to come back if I needed assistance as he'd be available nightly until 7:00.

I loved my new phone. It was sleek and had a lot of useless options. Most importantly I was back in the world of 24 hour communication. Except....the phone got hotter and hotter and HOTTER every time I used it. I felt like my hand was going to catch on fire. Was my little red phone a "weapon of mass destruction"? I hightailed it back to Luis at 6:45 the next night. "Andy" was at his desk? "Where's Luis, I cried... I need him, he promised he'd be here until 7:00"! "Luis had to go home to his wife", Andy calmly responded as he watched me sweat and pace. "But what about me"?! Who cared about his wife, it wasn't 7:00 yet! Andy patiently heard the tale of my little red "WMD", nodding patronizingly. He nicely took the phone from my hand and replaced it with a new silver model. "Can you set it up like Luis did", I whined. But Andy was on to me, " I bet you're pretty good at getting people to do things for you. I know your type". Hmmmm little Andy must have been a psych major. He was right but I liked him anyway.

I'd been in Seattle for two days...I had two new cell phones, two men who I thank for not calling the paramedics and no salmon.

"SURRENDER DOROTHY" ! or how I spent my summer vacay

8 STATES! I crossed eight states in a car: Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, and at long, long, long last the final destination Washington. Trust me there is no freaking way to make that ride short. No matter how many times I pulled out the map, checked the odometer, or stared at the time it didn't change the fact that it took up a significant portion of the years I have left. And btw I ate more chicken caesar salads than I care to remember. Don't drive across America if you don't eat red meat or long for a lively Sauvignon Blanc at the end of the day. Chicken Caesar salad and Chardonnay all the way to Seattle. And kiss high thread count sheets good-bye also.

What about the scenery? Why didn't I soak in America? Because I was hungry, tired and counting the miles. Wait, hang on just a sec, we did take a detour through the Badlands of South Dakota, which added approx 1 hour to the ride. Crap. And please please please can anyone tell me why they're called the Badlands and cost $$$ to enter? This is disturbing. And do they really need a gift shop? A tornado almost picked up the car outside of Rapid City, which in hindsight might have expedited the trip but at the time made me nervous about winged monkeys and the Lollipop Guild.

Ok, admitedly I didn't sit back and enjoy the ride. Does this make me a bad person? UnAmerican? Someone who needed to be medicated? Don't answer. By Washington all I could think about was a big piece of salmon and a wine list. Instead I got Luis and Andy.....stay tuned.

TWITTERING / FACEBOOK got you down?

Lordy, Lordy, it was a miracle. It happened, it finally happened! I got a phone call. Big freaking deal? Yes siree, you bet it is. There was a voice on the other end of the phone,and not a text message. It wasn't a "twitter"... or I wasn't "Facebooked" or "Linked In" or "Tagged". And btw, to anyone who "tagged" me - you were DELETED. Although it's a cute name, go away. If you have something to say, use the English language and CALL ME! Remember Alexander Graham Bell? How about "one ringy dingy" or two ringy dingies" and not "you've got mail". I've Twittered away hours, and still have no idea what it means. I have a few followers but I look behind me and no one's there. Are they supposed to come over? I have friends on Facebook, and they write on my "wall" but not very often. Besides, what can you say to a wall? I'm lonely... and desperate for real time conversation.

Than like a dream come true my cell phone rang! "Hello, hello" I gasped in disbelief...IT WAS JANE! "Jane are you really there? Really"?! I burst into tears. I didn't know what to say. I stuttered "Where are you"? Maybe she was "following" me and was in the back seat?! "Hey Gail, I thought I'd call, I'm so damn sick of internet messages". I continued to sob. A comrade in communication at last. "Me too", I managed to choke out. It took me a few minutes to compose myself, no longer used to talking in real time...the pressure was tremendous, but I managed to carry on a conversation. Boys and girls it was purging!

I hung up satisfied, not stymied about whether it was time to "twitter" again or check to see if I was rejected/accepted amongst Facebook "friends". Oy! I miss the days of my powder blue princess phone. Call me.

"YOU'RE FIRED"!

Holy crap, what if I lose my job?, There are lay-offs in every industry. I don't have an Alternate Job Plan B. Alternate Plan B is nowhere in site. But hold on just one sec, I have my own private art dealing business. At the moment that seems beside the point. I can look in the mirror one day and surprise myself by saying "you're fired"! Then what? What can I do? Nothing. Nada! Rien! I need a freaking plan. And resume. Terror strikes my heart...what would I write , "Want to buy a Picasso? Call me".

There must be something else I could do. How about Barrista? They have nice aprons and smiley faces. Free coffee would be a lovely perk. Yep, barrista could be me. Except what about short term memory loss, that's me also. Oh God, I can't remember anyone's mocha skim frothy venti , my mind is blank, the line is backed up around the block...children are crying, mother's are screaming, 6 men have missed their train and threaten to sue! "How about a nice black coffee for everyone" I yell out over the madness. I rip off my apron and run for my life. Ixnay barrista. Nanny? After all I was a mother. Except I can't help with math beyond the 3rd grade level. What if the children complain that I look older than their grandmother and that the last nanny was more fun and could play computer games. Next. How about the popcorn server at Home Depot? That doesn't look hard. Although I would look hideous in the uniform, orange is very bad with my hair color and I can't make popcorn.

Now what? Car mechanic? It sounds kinda sexy but I know nothing about car repair and don't have the right outfit. Hmmmmm. I vow not to fire myself until I can make popcorn.

"He's just not that into me"? ok.

Girls, girls, girls, I still don't get it...Am I just stupid or is the world on "relationship tilt"? Last night I watched as light, viewing entertainment "He's Just Not That Into You". Deeply disturbing film. Half way through I was searching for a paper bag to breathe into. Come on now, are we that pathetic a gender? Are we really the sadder sex? Hopelessly flawed? Doomed to lonliness? Flailing around in dating limbo? AND that freaking desperate for a man? Phew, there I said it! Why, why, why is it we need so much advice about how to get a date? Was I absent the day they taught the "man keeping" lesson in school? Is there not one single solitary male alive who is sitting around wondering why he's a dating loser? It seems all they suffer from is exhaustion... from rejecting women. Wow, great movie huh? Hide your daughter's eyes!

I get news letters from some dating guru named Christian Carter. The Dali Lama of man trapping. He claims to know secrets.... the things that will make a man want me. Awesome babe. How to meet the right man and get him to need me. Yea! How to change things back to how it was when you first started dating . Yippee! How to push the right buttons so a man opens up to me. Zippity do da! And last but not least (or maybe least), how to "speak his language". Ta da! Isn't this great? I'm so close .

Men are lucky. They're hangin' out waiting for "advice letter" readers to behave correctly. And this is the very best part girlies, when we strictly adhere to the instructions we can finally have a man of our own. Praise the Lord and crap. I was never good at following directions.