Life isn’t fair and neither is death

My twin separated at birth and blogging buddy Julie over at 47 and Starting Over took some heat this week for her take on all the hoopla over Michael Jackson’s death. For the record, I’m with her 100 percent, but I’m so friggin’ sick of it all that the last thing I want to do is write about it myself. I added a comment to her post; that’s all I’ll say.

Okay, just let me say one last thing: if I were Farrah, I’d be pissed. She was dead, what, three hours before the news broke about MJ?

I picture her up in heaven, wearing a cute little angel outfit… her gorgeous hair is back and she’s flashing that famous smile… Heath Ledger and Princess Di and JFK, Jr. and my Beautiful Aunt Joyce are there to welcome her with a bottle of champagne and they’re all chatting it up over how great Larry King will be tonight since his whole show will be devoted to the lovely Farrah.

“Larry’s next,” one of them says and they all giggle and clink glasses. Heaven is awesome!

And then who shows up at the pearly gates but Michael friggin’ Jackson. I’m telling you, if I were Farrah, I would have marched my (now cancer-free) ass over to St. Peter and I'd be in. his. face. With teeth clenched, I’d be like, “No f*cking way--you send him back right this instant! Is it too much to ask for one goddamn day to myself of post-mortem glory? Huh? Get me Jesus. I demand to talk to Jesus!”

Yeah, if I were Farrah, I’d be pissed as hell--where, by the way, MJ should be IF those charges against him were, in fact, true. But we really don't know, do we? None of us knows for sure.

Mental movie talk

So Sunday night beloved boyfriend and I had a date to go to the movies and when he picked me up, I swear, I was like a friggin’ mental patient. You know how you try on 10 different outfits and nothing looks good because you’re too goddamn fat and your face looks weird and your hair looks shitty and you hate all your clothes and you just want to cry?

Yeah, that’s what he had to contend with when he arrived at my door. Poor guy. Let me remind you that I was doing all this primping so I could sit in a dark theater for two hours, where, even if I looked fantastic, no one would see me.

Remember this from a previous post?


Imagine that to the tenth power. Do you ever get crazy like that, or is it just me?

Anyway, we saw the new Woody Allen movie, Whatever Works, starring my hero, Larry David. L.D. basically plays himself—the same guy we see on Curb Your Enthusiasm—but OMG, what a great movie and I’m not just saying that because I love Jews. I thought it was hysterical and so well done. I highly recommend—two thumbs up, four stars.

The review in our local Las Vegas newspaper said that if you liked The Hangover, this movie is not for you, and all I can say is NO SHIT! Are Mike and I the only people on earth who thought The Hangover sucked? We actually walked out after about a half hour. Please, I am not above stupid humor—I think What About Bob? is the greatest movie of all time—but we found nothing funny about that piece of crap. Nothing. Yet it will gross at least 10 times more than the new Woody. See, that’s when I think I’m out of whack with the rest of the world. I’m still trying to figure out what people see in Julia Roberts.

Oh, they showed the preview for Ang Lee’s new movie, Taking Woodstock, which comes out next month. It was shot in upstate New York, and guess who worked a few days on the set last summer as an extra?


Yep, our Courtney. You can see why the casting director was psyched when she showed up at the casting call. Can't wait to see it.

How about you? Any movies you're looking forward to? What makes you feel you're out of whack with the rest of the world? And please, please tell me you thought The Hangover sucked, too.

Olfactory pleasure at the Stone Temple Pilots show

What? WHAT?

Sorry, I’m still having trouble hearing after Thursday night’s Stone Temple Pilots concert at the new Joint in the Hard Rock. My friend Joanna was nice enough to offer me a free ticket, and I certainly wasn’t going to pass it up—thank you, Joanna! The new venue is awesome—not a whole lot bigger than the old Joint, but much nicer and you don’t have to leave the place to use the bathrooms, which is a big improvement.

LA-based rockers Hurt played a good, solid opening set and I actually liked them better than the headliner. Unfortunately, turnout for Hurt was pretty sparse, but the crowd thickened by the time STP took the stage. And holy cow, did it ever reek in there! My days of tokin’ are long over, but I have to admit, I love the smell of reefer. As I stood there taking in that lovely aroma, a couple of funny thoughts passed through my brain, like how I once I spent an entire afternoon searching the Internet for hemp-scented perfume.

Of course, I was at work. Don’t tell anybody, but several years ago I had a technical writing contract job that was a bit of a joke in that I really didn’t have much to do. But you know how it is—if you tell anyone you don’t have much to do, they’ll find stuff for you and I can guarantee it’ll be the crap nobody else wants to work on, so it’s best to keep your mouth shut and just look busy. And so one day, after telling a girlfriend at lunch about how much I love the smell of ganja, I had a mission and spent the rest of the afternoon “busy” doing research. There’s no shortage of products out there.

Oh, wouldn’t it be hysterical to show up to work some morning smelling like dope? Imagine chairing a meeting at the top your game, explaining product specifications and marketing predictions, emanating the sweet scent of cannabis and then going, “Sorry, I need to take this” when your Grateful Dead ring tone goes off. Think of the possibilities: baby showers, dental appointments, job interviews, business networking events... You’d be perfectly straight and totally articulate; you’d just freakin' reek.

I’m bad, but you know what else I was thinking about during the show? The time my daughter, Courtney, came home from her first unchaperoned concert and announced, “That place smelled like Dad’s jewelry box.”

Happy Fourth of July! My BFF Lisa Gioia-Acres invited me to a VIP party tonight at the Santa Fe casino up in the northwest part of town. I'll have a full report on Tuesday...

Techno-whine

I’ll come right out and say it: I’m sick of learning shit.

Every new purchase—whether it’s a TV, cell phone, or coffee maker—comes with a 100-page user’s manual. No more simply plugging stuff in and turning it on. Part of the reason I don’t buy anything is because I dread the accompanying learning curve; it’s not good for my blood pressure. I have all the patience in the world for people, but I could take a friggin’ hammer to a machine that doesn’t do what I want it to do.

I don’t know about you, but I am really starting to feel overwhelmed by technology. For a while I’ve been shamed into transitioning to Gmail from AOL (which I was perfectly happy with). “You’re still on AOL? You have to switch to Gmail.” So I gave in and now I have to learn the in’s and out’s of Gmail. Tuesday night it took me a good hour and a half to figure out how to send a mailing out to all the contacts on my mailing list, a task I could have accomplished in 10 minutes using AOL. And the worst part is, no sooner will I get Gmail down and I’ll be hearing, “You’re still on Gmail? That was so 2009.”

MySpace is out, Facebook is in. For now. You have to be on Twitter, you must be on Twitter. Well, guess what? Twitter can kiss my ass. I don’t give a crap that your bagel was delicious or that it’s raining again. You know scones, those overpriced bakery items that are supposed to be so cool they even sell them at Starbucks? Well, scones are shit; they taste like friggin’ dust. Totally overrated.

Twitter is just as overrated; it's the scone of technology. I'm not afraid to say the emperor’s naked: Twitter is a load of shit, for the most part, anyway. And “tweeting” sounds gay.

As a technical writer in a technology company (surprised?), I’m constantly learning in order to do my job. I don’t mind that; it’s to be expected. But I don’t appreciate having to learn technology so I can do other people’s jobs. In the course of a day, I can perform the duties of a grocery store clerk, bank teller, postal clerk, airline check-in clerk… Not to sound snobby (and I truly don’t mean to come across that way--those are all noble professions), but in high school we were advised to go to college so we wouldn't have to do those jobs.

Because I’m self-publishing my book, I have a ton to learn. There’s new software to understand, and now that I have my own publishing company, there are the nuts and bolts of setting up and maintaining a business. I also need to create a website I can sell books from and figure out how to get the thing in e-book and Kindle formats. I’ll also want to create an audio version. I don’t minding learning that stuff—that’s all aligned with my goal of getting my book out to you. But even so, I just want to learn it once and be done with it. Don't tell me the software I just spent two weeks learning is now antiquated.

I sound old, don’t I? I don’t care (as long as I don’t look old).

But what about you? Is technology making you mental? Are you sick of learning shit, too?

The return of Aging Nymphs!

Yep, we’re back and better than ever. After a brief hiatus, Aging Nymphs, the Blog Talk Radio show my sister Lori and I host, is returning to the Internet airwaves. Our guest tonight is my BFF and Las Vegas blogger extraordinaire, Hurricane Mikey.

Mikey’s been posting for many years and as of today he’s taking his first break from the blogsphere. He’s agreed to let us pick his brain about how he got started, how he built such incredible traffic and reader loyalty, and other topics of interest to both bloggers and blog readers.

To listen, simply go to our Blog Talk Radio website at 7:00 p.m. Pacific/10:00 p.m. Eastern and click on the show’s title. Call the number on the screen to join the conversation, or you can listen to the show archives anytime by clicking a link on the right sidebar of this site.

Talk to you later!

Yeah, I'm a man magnet

Had enough of listening to me spoutin’ off? Then you’re in luck. I have a guest blogger on tap for today—my beloved boyfriend, Mike. I know many of you have checked out his website and thought, “Oh, man, I can’t wait to hear more from this guy.” But if you’re expecting further insight into one of his smarty-pants mathematical solutions, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed; I told him he could be a guest blogger only if he promised to write in plain English.

So without further ado…

My girlfriend, the man magnet

Linda and I had a fantastic time last weekend. We went to a house party that hosted various Las Vegas Strip musicians and vocalists who performed jazz and R&B throughout the night.

The beer was great, the music was fantastic and my companion was perfect; perhaps too perfect.

Upon arriving we were greeted by my friend Rochelle who looked surprised and asked, “Hey Mike, how’d you know about this party?”

“Well, Rochelle, you invited me. Remember?”

I couldn’t look at Linda. Linda has a billion friends and I have only six--three if you don’t count my kids and now two if you don’t count Rochelle.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “Well, have fun.”

OK, no problem, I remained calm. Linda went out back to put the beer we brought in the cooler and I surveyed the food offerings. After a short conversation with the guy who made the chicken, I looked for Linda and but had trouble spotting her. I wedged my way through a small crowd that had formed toward the backdoor – and there she was. Now get this: having her picture taken with some guy whom she met only 30 seconds prior. (The faces herein have been changed to protect the guilty.)

“You’re really beautiful,” one douche bag slurred. (I will be using “douche bag” often, so I will henceforth abbreviate to “DB.”)

“This is my boyfriend,” she chimed.

He looked in my direction. “Oh? Well, she is really beautiful.”

“Yeah, I know. You see, Medusa was busy feeding her snakes so I thought I’d break with tradition and bring someone pretty.” That was met with daft stares and beer drool. Still calm.

Well, that had actually happened to us before, one night at Green Valley Ranch, so I was somewhat conditioned. I safely escorted her to the back yard and sat down. That’s when DB2 found Linda. Now this creep, who was with a date, found it necessary to speak so close to her face that I was concerned Linda may have been deprived of ambient oxygen and become asphyxiated. Linda tacitly assured me the situation was under control and I decided to get some more beer as hers was empty. Of course, when I returned he had decided that my seat, next to Linda, would give him a better vantage for discussion about his life, his women and other stuff. I asked him to move, which he did begrudgingly. I’m calm, mostly.

Wow, we're there for five minutes and I’m like the Secret Service guarding the First Lady. We finally get to enjoy the music.

After a while, I excused myself to make use of the facilities, and when I returned what did I find? Linda has danced with DB3. Yes, yet another jackal had decided to prey on poor defenseless Linda. Still calm, and even amused and flattered, I asked Linda to identify DB3 and she pointed to the backdoor. I wondered how the short bald-headed guy with a walker could muster a dance, but I decided to confront him anyway. “No, honey, I was dancing with the big black guy behind him; the saxophone player.” No longer calm--OMFG, 6’5” by 6’5”. In a sudden and unusual show of mercy I decided to spare this bloke and take the higher road (mostly because the lower road probably would have led to stitches and a splint).

This, believe it or not, is a typical date with Linda. And yes, everyone lived.

Um, yeah… that’s probably a pretty accurate account. Except I had a picture taken with yet another guy—I don’t know how Mike missed this one. What can I say? I make friends easily!


Of course, this is all in good fun, and the men in the photos were lovely guys and not at all douche-baggy. We had a fantastic time! And Mike forgot to tell you that chicks dig me, too, though that’s a topic for some other post. Whatever. We’ll just let the record show that my smile is widest when this handsome devil is next to me.


Geez... do I have to cheer up or what?

I know, all this being-in-love crap has got to be wearing thin on some of you, and right about now my readers who hate me are hating me even more, but please just be happy for me. When my book, Bastard Husband: A Love Story comes out, you’ll see I deserve it.

Photos by John Kaye, singer/songwriter. www.JohnKaye.com

My latest Living-Las-Vegas article

Looking for a little something extra to read today? Check out my latest www.living-las-vegas article, which posted this morning. It's about my experience as a hospice volunteer here in Las Vegas. Sound depressing? It's not--you know I can find the humor in anything.

If you'd like to leave a comment (and they are very much appreciated), please leave it over there--that will endear me to the site's publishers! As always, thanks for your continued readership. XOXO

Best. Party. Ever.

I’m happy to see that, judging from the comments you left on my last post, I’m not the only one who prefers not to start a vacation with an escalated blood pressure reading. Yes, allowing a cushion of time when leaving for the airport is definitely a good idea. And a relationship saver.

Courtney and John’s party was an absolute blast. You know how you have one of those days that you wish you could just live over and over? Last Saturday was one of those days for me.

Just like their perfect wedding (planned in just one week’s time), their celebration party was done on a shoestring budget. Courtney and her fairy godmother, my dear friend Susan, went shopping at the dollar store and picked up all sorts of cool decorations and paper products.




Yeah, that's the tap for the beer keg on the right. Notice how everything matches the color scheme of the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale label? No coincidence.

The party was held in Conkling Hall in Rensselaerville, NY--the same place where John's parents had their wedding reception over 40 years ago. This is how it looked before all hell broke loose.


The tablecloths and vases are, of course, from the dollar store. Florist? Forget it--Courtney picked the flowers that morning.

The party was to begin at 2:00; here's my princess at about 1:15. Her goal was to be in the shower by 1:30. (How soon before her flight do you think she arrives at the airport?)


But Courtney walks with the angels, as we always say, and she did shower and make it back by 2:00 as planned, looking gorgeous as ever.


Court got this dress from Macy's and she really likes it, so unlike her wedding dress from the Deb Shoppe, I don't think she'll be returning it. I told you about that, remember?

Soon the guests started filing in. Here's a funny picture of my son, Christopher, with my ex-mother-in-law, Virginia.


Yeah, they're both standing. Don't they look like something out of the Guinness Book of World Records? (Mmmmm... Guinness.) Christopher is the sweetest person on earth, and I'm not just saying that because I'm his mother.

Here's Courtney and her two grandmothers. That's my mother on the right.


Wow... who's this good looking couple?


I was happy that all my family and friends got to meet beloved boyfriend, and I was especially happy that he didn't run like hell when Courtney called him "Stepdad." That's a good sign, though--she won't be peeing in his shampoo.


Everyone brought a dish for the buffet--no need for a caterer when you have lots of friends willing to do the cooking for you, right? And no need to hire a band, either, when half the people there are musicians. After everyone ate, the jam session began.


That's John, Courtney, and Christopher on guitars; my grandson, Connor, is the lighting technician. There is nothing that makes me happier than watching my kids play together. They each write their own songs, but weave in a cover tune now and then. My eyes watered up when my little Joni Mitchell sang "You Are My Sunshine"--if you read this post, you'll know why.

The music was fabulous and went on for hours as one musician after another went up to jam. One of the highlights was toward the end when the stage was filled with these talented young folks playing the best version of "I Shall Be Released" I've ever heard. Reminded me of the final song in The Last Waltz.


Everything was perfect and everyone had a great time. I shake my head when I think of how much money people spend these days on weddings. Who needs fancy matchbooks when you can give out homemade beer and CDs as party favors?


Nope, nothing could make me happier.

Getting there is half the fun

In my last post, I asked whether you’re the type of traveler who arrives at the airport with plenty of time to spare or if rushing to the gate at the last minute is more your style.

Being late is stressful to me, and I freak out in double time if I think I’m going to be late for a flight, so as a result, I like to leave my place here in Henderson two hours before take off. Yes, I know I’m only 15 minutes from the airport, but because I’m “frugal,” I have to allow time to find a parking spot in the economy lot, take the shuttle to the terminal, check in, go through security, get my USA Today and People/Us/OK!/Star magazines (depending who’s on the cover), have a beer and make new friends in the bar, pee, and then get to my gate 10 minutes before we board. That’s my little ritual.

I had a feeling my beloved boyfriend is the type who, while I’m yakking it up with fellow travelers over a Guinness, is just getting out of the shower. And so, when he asked what time he should pick me up at work last Thursday for our 1:55 flight to Albany, I told him noon, even though my office is a mere five minutes from the airport.

“Noon?” he asked. “I have some errands to do in the morning.”

“Alright, 12:30,” I said, figuring maybe for once I could give in a little, even though I hate giving in as much as I hate compromising.

Mensa Man’s a smart guy, so he arrives at my office a few minutes early and we’re on our way, with time to spare. Let the adventure begin… our first trip together involving air travel. My family is finally going to get to meet my amazing boyfriend. Yay!

“Do you have your license?” I ask, seconds after we leave the parking lot. As the words come out of my mouth, I feel kind of bad because it’s such a no-duh question and I don’t want him to think I’m a nag or anything because I’m a changed woman and I don’t nag anymore.

But… no. As a matter of fact, he does NOT have his license. His license is in his wallet, which is… back at his house. In Henderson. Fifteen minutes from the airport.

“No problem,” I calmly say. “We’ll just go back and get it.” And because I’m a changed woman and so in love with this guy, what I didn’t say was,

“Are you f*cking kidding me? You have an IQ of 500 and you forgot your f*cking wallet?”

And then, because I’m a changed woman and I’m not sarcastic anymore, what I didn’t say was,

“Are you f*cking kidding me? You have an IQ of 1000 and you’re taking the goddamn surface streets instead of the highway? Seriously?”

At 12:55 I’m sitting outside his house while he runs in to fetch his wallet. A mere hour before our flight.

The good news is, this guy is the most amazing driver I’ve ever seen in my life. “We’ll be at the airport in six minutes,” he promises, but I don’t believe him. There’s no way we can make it that quickly. No freakin’ way. But because I’m a changed woman, I don’t say a word. I sit in the passenger seat and smile.

He breaks a hundred traffic laws getting us there, and I swear I cover my eyes as we careen down the 215, but we get to the airport from Henderson in six freakin’ minutes.

At that point, economy parking is out of the question, so I direct him to the long-term garage, where there are two lanes dispensing tickets. Except one is obstructed with an orange construction cone, so we drive up to the open lane.

It’s out of tickets.

There are no f*cking tickets left in the goddamn ticket dispenser. Which also means there is no getting through the gate to the garage.

Cars begin to line up in back of us, the drivers wondering what the hell the problem is. Fortunately, no one dares to beep their horn, which saves them from my wrath because I would have ripped their f*cking heads off. Mensa Man gets on the phone next to the empty f*cking ticket dispenser and asks whoever answered to come and rectify the situation. For two minutes I practice my yoga “calm blue sea” mantra before a guy on a bicycle rides over and opens the closed lane.

So we finally get a goddamn ticket and drive into the garage. No parking spots on this level… or the next… or the next… or the next… Not until we snake our way up to the roof do we find an open space. By this time, I’m resigned to the fact that there’s no way we can make our flight and it’s a good thing beloved boyfriend has his wallet because he’s going to need it to get us on a later one. But I am still the picture of serenity, spouting crap like, “It’s all good; the universe unfolds in divine order,” and “This must be happening for a reason,” because, you know, I’m a changed woman because I’m so in love and I don’t fly off the handle anymore.

As we approach the ticket counter, I’m positive we’re way too late to check our bags, but the attendant takes them and tells us we’ll still make the flight. Of course, I don’t believe her.

There’s no line at security so I thank God until I hear, “Excuse me, ma’am. You’ve been selected for a random check.”

“You have got to be f*cking kidding me. This is f*cking bullshit. I’ve never been randomly checked in my life and you gotta pull this f*cking bullshit now?”

That’s what I would have said. But I’m a changed woman and I want my boyfriend to think that I’m breezy and easy going, so I don’t say a word. I let the TSA woman pat me down and wand me over as I try to suppress my heaving chest. Calm blue f*cking sea.

Finally she’s done with her ritual. But where’s Mensa Man? Oh, beautiful. He’s been caught behind me. Another TSA woman is going through his backpack and she is most certainly not in a rush.

“Hurry up, you stupid f*cking retarded b*tch!”

That’s what I would have said, but because my boyfriend still thinks I’m a nice person… oh, fuck it, at that point I figured there's no way we’d make it to the gate on time anyway so why bother wasting perfectly good obscenities?

My beloved won’t give up. “Come on, we can still make it!” he cries.

As we run to the gate, I come this close to spraining my ankle in my three-inch Spring/Summer 2009 platforms that I always wear because the extra height makes me look thinner, and…

… we make it.

In fact, they’re just starting to board. I not only have time to grab a celebrity rag, but I have time to pee, too. Amazing. It’s all good. Maybe the universe really does unfold in divine order. I turn to beloved boyfriend and say,

“You are so buying me a cocktail on this flight.”

I’m not that much of a changed woman.

There are lessons to learn here, but the one lesson I hope my boyfriend doesn’t learn is that it’s okay to pick me up a half hour later than I suggest; I can’t handle that kind of stress. And of course, the lesson for me is that there’s really no need to be so neurotic about leaving such a huge cushion of time. Even though we left Henderson an hour before our flight, even with the ticket and security snafus, we still made it on time.

But I hate learning lessons. Just like I hate giving in and I hate compromising.

As it turns out, we made it to Albany no problem. Beloved boyfriend so thoughtfully had gone out and bought us each a pair of noise-reducing headphones, which he hooked up to two little connected DVD players so we could watch a movie together during the long flight. It was awesome! But I still haven’t told you about Courtney and John’s party, so come back on Saturday, okay?

Back in Vegas!

Just got back to Las Vegas--a day later than expected. We were supposed to fly out of Albany Monday night, but our plane was delayed due to mechanical problems and we would have missed our connection, so we got a bonus night. (U.S. Air even put us up in a hotel, which was good.)

I have a LOT to tell you, but right now I'm freakin' exhausted so I'll just say that Courtney and John's party was a blast--so much fun and the music was incredible. My kids, friends, and the rest of my family absolutely adored my boyfriend. As for me, I love him even more than before, which is kind of a miracle since this is the first guy I've spent six consecutive days with in years (and I mean we were together almost every minute of every day). But it was great! We had a truly amazing time.

Thursday's post will feature the full run-down, complete with pictures (none after my second beer, of course). In the meantime--and this is kind of a hint of how Thursday's post will start out--I have a question for you:

Are you one of those people who likes to get to the airport with plenty of time to spare before your flight?

Or do you see no point in getting there early and prefer to breeze in as close to your departure time as possible?

Just curious. Let me know...