Color me Fabulous

I have had a crappy week. I had my heart bruised by a bad man, and have been trying to shake off that funky mood.

How do you mend a bruised heart, you ask? You pamper yourself like the goddess you are.

With a gift card firmly in hand, I headed off to Gilded Spa and Salon in Palm Beach Gardens. First up was an hour-long massage. I thought it was going to be aromatherapy, but it was not. But honestly, I was so relaxed and Humberto's hands were magic, so I didn't make a fuss. I just laid there quietly while he worked out the stress I always store in my shoulders. At one point, I almost dozed off.

Then it was off to the salon side for a pedicure. She wrapped my legs in hot towels and buffed my heels smooth. And there was Champagne! And cookies! I could not help but smile at how decadent I felt, spoiling myself. I need to do that more often!!

So, am I still blue? Yes, admittedly, a little. But now, so are my toes (Chanel Blue Satin, to be specific).

And like me, they are fabulous.

Single White Female looking for a fight!

Working at a magazine, I get a lot of press releases. About 75 percent of them, really, are not a fit for my magazine. We have a little chuckle about disposable litter boxes, painted toilet seats and $10 jewelry. But one came across my desk today that struck a chord. A big, red, angry chord.

I am single. And, this might come a surprise to all the paired up people who ask me if I’m dating anyone before they ask after my health, but I enjoy my life. And I know you’ve forgotten, married friends, but it’s hard to meet the right person. It really is. You have to kiss a lot of frogs. I know. I’ve kissed more than my share. And some toads. And even, unfortunately, a snake or two. It’s all really a big crap shoot, but it’s a chance you’ve got to take, right?

Well, according to the release I got today, I should be miserable. I am single, and Valentine’s Day is coming up. I’ll have to endure seeing happy couples, red hearts and flowers all around. Oh, what are we supposed to do to get us through that day? Apparently, our only options as singletons on Valentine’s Day is to sit home alone feeling sorry for ourselves or go out and try to meet someone (because on Valentine’s Day, bars are obviously crawling with single men). But it’s oh so hard to pick up just the right stranger in a bar… However can we tell if someone truly is our soul mate right then and there? The exact person we’ve been looking for all along…

Are you ready for it?

Because I wasn’t…


Single Bands. Yes, that is right, Single Bands, a new line of color-coded wrist wear (rubber bracelets) which help singles find a match in a “simple and funny way.” Each color indicates the wearer’s status:
Blue: never been married (spinster)
Green: divorcées (failure at at least one relationship)
Purple and orange: gay/lesbian and bisexual, respectively (or purple means you support Lupus research. My friend Nancy wears one for that. Better be sure before you hit on someone in a purple bracelet, you could get a sock in the eye!)
Pink: you are living with someone (Then why the hell are you out looking to meet people, perv?)
Yellow: you are separated (not yet divorced, again, why are you out trying to meet people?)
Red: a widower (I don’t know what color a widow would wear, that is not listed. You poor things.)

But then there is more, and this is confusing, because it repeats colors. The Single Bands package includes bands that specify what the wearer is looking for in a prospective mate:
Red: for romantic (I thought it was for widower. But not widows. They get no color)
Green: for educated (educated divorcées?)
Orange: for “I’m into people of all races.” (or “I am bisexual.”)

Either way, you could end up with a stack of bracelets up to your elbow, announcing to the world that you’ll take anything and anyone, or that you support a lot of causes. If that is the case, then good on you!

This is all the brainchild of a woman named Cathy Hill. She sees it as a simple way to meet people without being set up by friends. “I have been divorced,” she says. “I tried dating online and would never recommend it.” Indeed, the best inventions are born out of frustration.

Well she frustrates me. To the point where I want to fight her!!! I physically want to beat her up. And I’ve never been in a fight before. I have very dainty wrists. I am sure one would snap if I landed any kind of punch. But she makes me that mad.

It’s hard to meet someone, so her brilliant idea is to “tag” us like water buffaloes on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom? I am sure that will make meeting someone so much easier. You just walk in, hold up your arm for the world to see, and just wait for the soul mates to come crawling toward you. Oh, that sounds like lots of fun. And helpful. Why talk to someone when you could instantly know everything there is to know by the rubbers on his wrist.

I’ve got a better idea. Load up your arm with fancy bangles (Unless you’re a guy. Guys should not wear fancy bangles. Unless you want to. I don’t judge.), grab your other single girlfriends and get out there and have fun and enjoy being single! You never know who you might meet. Hopefully you aren’t wearing matching fancy bangles.

On a side note, if this freak really wants to make a go of tagging people with bracelets, she should make them actually helpful and informative:
Red for "evil shrew"
Gray for "has no job and lives in his parents’ basement"
Gold for "already married," and that should be around your finger.
Burnt Orange for "bitter with baggage"
Black for "self-absorbed jackass"
And blue for "bad kisser." A bad kisser is a non-negotiable.
And I should know. I've kissed a lot of frogs.

Doctor, doctor

I hate going to the doctor. It honestly terrifies me. I'm 38, and the thought of even getting my finger pricked still makes me want to cry a little. I've never been good with doctors, I screamed when I was little and I whimper now. So I can imagine how my mother dreaded taking me. But I sympathize with her a little bit.

Because today I took the cat to the vet.

Now I sympathize with Daphne too, doctors are scary. But at least I know why I have to go. All she knows is she gets crammed in her carrier, only to be pulled out by a stranger who pries her mouth open and sticks a thermometer up her bum. As you can imagine, this does not go over well, much to the vet's shock and my embarrassment as Daphne lunges for their throat (or nose, or hand, whichever body part is closer).

At least it's over quick.

In fact, it's getting her there in the first place that is a well-choreographed dance of skill and timing. Allow me to present my instructions on how to get a cat to the vet.

1. I can not stress this one enough. DO NOT take the cat carrier from its storage place until you are 100% ready to walk out the front door. Trust me.

2. Remain calm and be cool. Cats are smart. They sense fear and they sense a plot. On the day you are going to the vet, play it cool as you get ready. Don't show your nervousness. They will know something is up and immediately hide under the bed.

3. When you are 100% ready to leave the house (and not one minute before, I mean it, your teeth need to be brushed, if you need a coat, put it on), make sure the cat is in a public area and then close off all bedrooms. Because once you bring the carrier out, you have a limited window of opportunity to grab the cat and get her in it. Because once they see it, they will run and try to hide. It's important that all bedroom doors are closed. If the cat goes under the bed, game over. You might as well call the vet and say you're going to be late, or you're not coming. A cat will always be just out of your reach under a bed. And they have teeth and claws in case you happen to grab a leg. I have actually had to lift the mattress and box spring up to get Daphne out from under the bed. It's not fun.

4. When you go to grab them, just grab them. You are the boss, and if you advance slowly, they will bolt and find a place to hide. They are quick movers. I recommend a carrier that opens up on the top, rather than just on the front. Gravity is on your side, as it is much easier to drop in than shove in.

5. Now for the car ride. Prepare yourself for the worst noises you have ever heard. EVER. Sounds you can not believe are coming from the small creature beside you. I swear, the military could use a recording of Daphne in the car instead of water boarding. It's that bad. Consoling her does not help, and ignoring her just makes it louder and more bizarre sounding.

6. Pray it's not a busy dog day at the vet, because you will have to wait and dogs are curious. Hopefully you can find a chair off to the side, away from traffic, quietly holding the carrier in your lap. Last time I took her in, it was dogs on parade! Daphne is already having an anxiety attack, and I get some giant Great Dane poking its nose up against her carrier. Hissing, swiping, and the owner looks at me like my cat is a rabid raccoon. (The same thing happens if lots of kids are there.)

7. Once in the exam room, I open the carrier, and let her sniff around a bit. Usually she just stays in the carrier. Hell to get her in, and a pain to get her out when the vet comes in. And I just stand there and hold my breath, waiting for Daphne to lunge and rip the vet's face open. Thankfully this has never happened, but there is always a lot of hissing, growling and dirty looks. And the last vet who got right down in her face to check her teeth should thank his lucky stars he was blessed with quick reflexes.

Back in the carrier, which is much easier to do in the vet's office, more growling in the car, and we're home like nothing ever happened. Sigh.

I love her to death, don't get me wrong. But I am so glad this only has to happen once a year. I don't know if my nerves could take it. Which reminds me, I'm due for a physical....

No Smoking, Please

I just found out that Tim Bentley, my former boss at Business to Business, magazine in Atlanta, died. He was 55.

He apparently had been sick a long time with breathing and pulmonary problems brought on by years of smoking.

Tim was funny and crabby, an old-school journalist with plenty of stories to tell about his time rolling with politicians and the like. I am sad that he is gone, and that he got so sick.

When I first started working with him, he would chew nicotine gum all day. But still go for smoke breaks. "I thought your were trying to quit," I said, since he was chewing the gum.

"I chew the gum because I can't smoke at my desk," he said.

I don't want to be a hypocrite, because I have smoked a few cigarettes myself. But if you are a smoker, please try and quit. And if you don't smoke, don't start.

Because I am sure you are funny and crabby, with plenty of stories still left to tell.

Is this your porn?

This week, three friends brought up the weirdest story if not of all time, the weirdest one in the past few weeks. Jumping in at the end of the bailout breadline rolls Larry Flynt and Joe Francis, saying they are going to ask the government for a $5-billion bailout for the porn industry.

Now, my reaction to this was that I wouldn't think the porn industry would ever be in trouble. Come on, it's never going out of business! To quote my cousin, "Naked women drive men crazy." People will always find money for porn. Hell, there are probably people who skip lunch to have a little cash to buy a tittie magazine. Or they could eat lunch at the tittie bar, and kill two birds with one stone.

Personally, I think these two douche bags should put their energy toward making porn better. We are an intelligent society. We deserve a little more (no pun intended) meat to our porn. Give us something more than what we can see for free on VH-1! More bang for our buck, so to speak.

All of this reminded me of something that happened to me a few years ago, when I was still living in Atlanta. We had lived in our apartment for a couple years. I was home one night, and the cat started going nuts. A moth had gotten in. Moths are not only fun playthings for a cat, apparently they also are magically delicious. So she started chasing it around, and into the kitchen, where counter jumping was attempted. Kitchen counter jumping is NOT ALLOWED, so I stepped in and tried to find said moth.

I dragged over a chair to climb onto the counter myself to see if it was on top of the cabinets (which did not reach the ceiling, allowing for some extra storage space). I looked up, and there it was.

Not the moth. A videotape. Tossed into the corner. Covered in dust. Next to my Santa Claus Merry Christmas cookie tray. I picked it up. Show and Tell it was called.

I stood there on the kitchen counter, looking around like I was on Candid Camera. I knew what it was, but of course went right to the VCR and popped it in, still looking around like a camera crew was going to bust in any minute yelling "Gotcha!"

And there it was. A worn-out looking groupie and a hairband reject banging up against black lacquer furniture. And then a shot that looked like something out of a video you might see at your girly doctor.

This is supposed to be hot? Two unattractive people smearing across tacky furniture intermixed with an instructional video? I had to stop it. Horrified, I of course called Chris, "You will not believe what I found in my kitchen!!!"

Then the front door opened and my sister walked in, on her cell phone... "Is this your porn???" I asked, holding the video in the air. With eyes like saucers, she said, "I gotta go.... " as she slowly hung up her phone. Then looked at me like I asked her if this was her jar of ground up babies. "NO!"

So, if you lived in AMLI @ Spring Creek about seven years ago, I am sorry to say that I threw away your cheap porn, which for some reason you left in the kitchen.

I am sure whoever it was has since purchased more to replace it.

You're welcome Larry and Joe. Glad I could do my part.

And you can dance...

Happy New Year! My resolution this year was not to lose weight (I'm already in Weight Watchers, and tonight I lost another pound--6 more to go!). Although I do want to do more weight machines at the gym in addition to the treadmill.

No, I resolved to write on this blog everyday. The blog that I have neglected since September, and was not very good at writing on it to start with. See, unlike my friend Paige, who had an AWESOME blog (and who needs to start another one, because she is fabulous), I am nervous about sharing too much on the Internet, or having my thoughts looked at as stupid or boring. Because, let's face it, not much happens here in South Florida. At least not at #8425. Don't get me wrong. I am loving it here. This was the best career decision I have ever made. And the weather can not be beat! And I have met some of the best people.

And I got to spend New Year's Eve at the most beautiful wedding I have ever been at (with all apologies to those whose beautiful weddings I have attended).

Then I spent the entire weekend addicted to VH-1 Classic. They are actually still playing 2009 for 2009, an alphabetical buffet of MTV when MTV was all we had, and all they had was videos. Madonna! Prince! Wham! Crowded House! Haircut 100! Classics, one-hit wonders. And, being as a lot of it was from the 80s, one-hit wonders that are classics! Oh, it took me back. Back to when all the boys from Duran Duran were still hot (Well, Simon, John and Nick STILL look good. Roger and Andy were always, well.. talented). When my boy, George Michael, was hot AND straight!! (Again, still hot)

Yes, these videos are cheesy. Hell, some of these artists should have just stuck to radio, if you follow me, but they are all so great! The cheesy pop! The cheesy dance! And, of course, the hair bands!!!! Come on, someone with hair this big can't NOT love hair bands. Julie and I talked all weekend about how great a lot of that music still is.

(As a side note, I can actually claim a little connection to a hair band! My mom taught math. One of her students was Fred Coury. Fred Coury was (is?) the drummer for Cinderella. Nobody's Fool, indeed)

Speaking of cheesy hair bands, that brings me to how I wound up my holiday weekend. Tuning in to season three of Bret Michaels, Rock of Love 3 (the whole time, on the phone with Paige so we could be horrified together). He's taking them on tour this year, so they really know what his life is like, hopping from has-been rock festival to Indian casino and back again. I like to call this season Skanks on a Bus. Because they are traveling on a bus and, well.... Yes, this season is definitely the high (or low) water mark when it comes to the type of "lady" willing to do what she has to do to win the love of one Bret Michaels. He does love the Steelers, I gotta respect that. But Bret obviously has a type. And that type is skank whore. Or cheap airport strip bar pole dancer.

I don't know if it is the Botox or the hair plugs or the makeup (that he is still sporting) or his dye-a-bee-tus (that is how he pronounces it) that has so radically affected his eyesight, but Bret looked upon the "ladies" (using this term so loosely) and pronounced them all "smokin' hot." I am sure it's a matter of opinion. I fancy the men myself, but can, I think, judge an attractive woman. So if his idea of "smokin' hot" means gallons of bleach, more silicone than is probably legal, Botox, piercings and (WOW) multiple tats, then yes, these "ladies" are smokin' hot. Although some of them looked like actual transsexuals (not that there is anything wrong with that), this season has a special mix! There is an actual porn star (he recognized her from her films), a Penthouse Pet (who really might be one of the classy girls) and a "lady" who actually aspires to be a whore. That was her introduction. "Hi, I'm Natasha, and I want to be a madam." In Canada. I did not know that our neighbors to the north had more lenient laws, but I gotta figure that if you admit to wanting to start a prostitution ring on national TV, your passport has probably been flagged.

But what do I know? I am just a simple magazine editor, living in South Florida and enjoying all that has to offer.