Marriage, ESP and X-Ray Vision

Several days ago I was in the bedroom with Seth as he prepared, with first graders everywhere, for his early bedtime. As he yawned and clapped in anticipation of a good night's sleep and I folded the last few pieces of laundry in the basket, we heard a great clattering from down the hall.

"What's happening in the kitchen?" Seth asked me.

Amazingly I wasn't able to tell him...since I was not in the kitchen. I was in the bedroom with him.

I turned to give him the how-in-the-name-of Justin-Bieber's-undescended-testicles-should-I-know look but he was tired and had worked a long day so I gave him a break, calmly answered, "I have no idea," and went to check. It turns out that Buzzy had knocked something off the table.

"Hey, that was not very nice!"

A few days earlier, we had been chatting in the kitchen and enjoying an unexpected breeze as it drifted in from the open window. Suddenly, a great outburst of barking arose from outside and Seth asked me,"What's happening out there? Who's doing all that barking?"

Yet again, I had no answer.

There were two walls between me and the outside world and having not yet acquired the power to penetrate solid objects with my magic eyes, I knew exactly what Seth knew: nothing . I was in a good mood thanks to that cooling breeze and, again, let it pass and went to check.

It appeared to be some sort of conference between several of the regularly walked dogs in the neighborhood. No one was getting mauled or eaten so, deducing that there was no need to dial 911, I returned to the kitchen and reported my findings.

Then just yesterday, Seth and I were in the car on our way home when an ambulance, siren screaming, suddenly appeared behind us. He swung neatly to the side of the road as we've been taught, turned to me and asked, "Where is he going?"

Having neither a police scanner nor any recent manifestations of ESP -- other than a brief vision predicting that Joe Biden is sure to say something moronic again soon --  I had no idea.

Since the driver did not think to pull over and lean from his window to inform me as to his destination, I was as clueless as the husband who apparently has imbued me with qualities of x-ray vision and a sixth sense...yet my job description and pay scale do not contain the term or earning potential of "oracle."

There was no cool breeze that day. Seth was rested and at ease--why hold back? And so I did what any testy bitch normal wife would do under similar circumstances and shouted "HOW THE %$#*&% SHOULD  I KNOW?"

Unaware of any possible problem, my eruption startled Mr. Innocent who looked at me with such surprise and disappointment in my bad behavior that I immediately felt terribly guilty and apologized.

The moral of this story and accompanying universal truth is simply this: Sometimes men being married is weird.

Weird? Why would you say that?

The Power of Dr. Oz

Who didn't love Dr. Oz in the beginning?

Introduced to the public by Oprah, he was refreshing and kind. He told us things we needed to hear and taught us stuff about our health and bodies that was new and helpful.

While never entirely comfortable with his insistence on wearing green operating scrubs on the show every week (I swear this stems from an early childhood memory soon to be a blog post), he was kind of cute with that flip of hair on his forehead and his droopy upper eyelids.

While I was never one of them, I suspect many women imagined him handling their pancreases with the same sensuality he fondled the preserved organs brought as show and tell to the Oprah show.

Look at that body language!

Angry Steadman

This went on for a while.

Oprah's boyfriend, Steadman and I endured the increasingly touchy-feely relationship that appeared to be developing between Oprah and Mehmet (I call him that). They both seemed in a bit of a lather over the dessicated lungs and heart valves they were petting and, if you combine all this with purple latex, the show was starting to get a little breathy for my taste.

Rumor has it, he wore no underwear beneath those scrubs. *

Then he got his own show and it didn't take long for me to grow annoyed.

Between the infatuated women in his audience who thundered to the stage to participate in some demo illustrating why we're all going to die very soon, to his constant groping of everyone in the studio, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Then as his producers realized that weight loss tips and tricks drew the biggest ratings, this became the focus of the show.

It now seems that every day he touts the miraculous properties of some new extract or powder harvested, perhaps, from the enlarged thymus of the Amazonian transvestite, freeze dried, packaged and express shipped to obese America to hasten the loss of belly fat, cellulite and bank account.

Instead of his original message of less food, more exercise there were endless supplements or ways to trick your metabolism, awaken one's enzymes or meditate your way to a slender figure.

As I grew tired of all this,  I noticed there was a co-host on "The Chew" (for those new to this blog, it is no secret that I have TV addiction issue but don't worry, I watch "Intervention" every week in the hope of learning how to overcome it) who was ditzy in a very uninteresting way and did not seem to know a parer from a grater from a ricer.

When I learned she was the daughter of Dr. Oz, it all made sense. In general I have no issue with nepotism---it's how the world works. I, myself, pine for a successful relative to set me up but she was just so blah. Plus I was insanely jealous that she got to hang around with my beloved Clinton Kelly--every straight woman's idea of the perfect man: funny, clever, can help you dress to minimize your ass bags, whips up delicious cocktails and does not want to sleep with you.

I just checked out the young Miss Daphne Oz and, guess what, I did not see any culinary or nutritional training. Hmmmm.

Then, to complicate matters, Dr. Oz's wife pops up on a morning show, introduced as being a "relationship expert."

First of all, what is a relationship expert? By current television standards, it appears to be someone who has not yet taken hostages or killed a co-worker.

Hold on...let me google her. Well, no education or training in relationships...but, wait, she was captain of the tennis team in college!

All this worried me. We have an unqualified Oz talking about food on TV and another one giving advice--to millions of people. Was the Oz family attempting to take over the world?

Daphne Oz

I DVRed "The Chew" so I could avoid Daphne and go directly to the intoxicating Clinton Kelly, put my fingers in my ears and said "Lalalalala" when Lisa Oz came on and stopped watching her husband in the afternoons.

But then I tuned into a summer medical show about real life doctors in New York City....and there was Dr. Oz, again-- and this time wearing scrubs for more than just foreplay with Oprah.

He was actually interacting with sick people and I found myself falling in love. This guy was warm and approachable. I found myself desiring bypass surgery just so I could playfully tug at the tie of his sterile mask and bask in the reassuring glow of his smile.

It was then I realized the power of Dr. Oz.

While I am still boycotting his show, I can understand it all a little better now.

* I started that rumor today.

I love you, Clinton.

Conflicts of the Middle Ages

I recently had to take my laptop for a check-up with the aptly named Geek Squad in my local Best Buy.

Walking in, laptop under my arm, I passed the official greeter stationed at a counter by the automatic doors. Simultaneously manifesting the symptoms of imminent suicide with those of extreme cheerfulness, he nodded at my computer with a smile and ushered me through with a despondent wave.

I strolled past the same counter less than a hour later, computer properly tweaked, to be bade farewell by another greeter who didn't seem to care in the least that I was exiting the store with a piece of equipment tucked under my arm.

Suspicious of all by nature, as far as I was concerned, the computer I carried could have been stolen.

After all, is it not possible that I was a thief? Is this not why there is someone stationed by the door pretending to be happy to see me when I enter and unctuously wishing me a "nice day" when I leave?

Never willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt and, therefore not worthy of receiving it myself, I asked the greeter why he didn't seem in the least bit concerned that I was leaving with stolen merchandise.

"Oh," he laughed, "you don't look like you'd steal anything!"

Oh, really.

The great Don Pardo

Clearly this guy found me to fall in the category of bland middle age as opposed to exciting, mysterious potential thief. Was it the graying hair, the softened body angles, the sensible shoes? Does my appearance paint a picture of someone who is so harmless that she is incapable of slipping a "Don Pardo Reads the Phonebook" CD into the waistband of her mom jeans.

Well, goddamit.

Bad asses....

Does middle age neutralize us? I think not. Did Margaret Thatcher not make her mark in her middle years? Was Gold Meir not her most effective while graying and wrinkling? What about Madeline Albright? Hilary Clinton? Indira Gandhi?

....both.

The fact that I compare my likelihood to steal a laptop with these accomplished women of history, in itself not only catapults me from any potentially honorable accomplishments myself but should alarm you, dear reader (and family members) on many levels.

On that note, I am now about to return to Best Buy...my lap top's been acting up again and there's a copy of "Vanilla Ice Sings Rogers and Hammerstein" that I've been, er, meaning to "get."

Trouble in the House

Well, it finally happened.

I went totally nuts during a self-imposed House Hunters marathon I'd DVRed--saved up for another exciting Saturday evening at home. I should have known better.

It was inevitable.

It's very trying when a series of idiots complain about minor cosmetic issues when deciding on which house to buy. And, after the third hour, I felt my grip on self control, despite the presence of a dozing Seth and a couple of relaxed cats, starting to loosen.Who could blame me?

 It was bad enough when a woman with a budget of half a million bucks whined bitterly about an inexpensive and easily removed ceiling fan in a beautiful property that included a spa tub big enough to host Olympic trials, a kitchen the size of Ontario and enough bathrooms for Marie

Antoinette.

"Lady," said I to the screen. "Just get rid the fan and put something you like better in." The seas were still calm at this point.

Then, as expected, she complained about the paint color in the dining room but despite sensing a slight roaring in my ears I was appeased by her husband's reminder that, "Honey, we can change that very easily!"

Not that I think  he was that much more reasonable than his wife. He was just more observant because steam had started to come out of the realtor's ears.

Then, in another episode, someone made the brilliant observation that "If only I could take this exact house and put it into that other neighborhood!" After rewinding this to make sure I'd heard correctly, my agitation levels spiked but the cord tethering me to sanity had still not been totally snapped.

"Well, you cannot, you total idiot. Get real!" I hissed at the screen, causing Buzzy's ear to swivel toward me as the seas were grew choppy.

The final straw arrived while actually enjoying an episode that dealt with a young woman who wanted to purchase a brownstone in my home town of Brooklyn, New York. She'd been living with her parents to save money to fulfill this dream but I became slightly alarmed at her admission that she'd blown through the services of eight realtors before engaging a the ninth for the show.

I soon learned why.

This woman, a native New Yorker, wanted a brownstone that had been completely renovated for $500,000 or less. Really, lady? Really?

New York City costs big, big, big bucks. End of story.

Her wish list included granite counters and stainless steel appliances in addition to two empty and gleaming rentals apartments to pay her mortgage.

"Oh, yeah? Good luck!" I snorted loudly at the screen.

What she found instead were a couple of homes with good bones and serious potential, decent rentals and a lovely agent who was becoming increasingly annoyed -- like me -- at her lack of reality. The houses needed TLC which could have been administered slowly as time, and her bank account, permitted. She did not agree.

So, as this young woman became increasingly bitchy and petulant, my hours of frustration (and personal lack of a spa tub) caused my lady-like (hahahahahahahaha!!) nature to dissolve and I found myself on my feet yelling "Just friggin' hit her! Hit her already!!" at the real estate agent.

The cats fled. Seth awoke, momentarily alarmed at the ruckus...but upon seeing House Hunters on the screen, correctly sized up the situation and shuffled off to bed.

As for me, there will be no more House Hunters marathons.

It's National Relaxation Day!

Today is National Relaxation Day!

I think this should be more than an asterisk on the calendar, don't you?

Why not embrace such a good idea and observe it properly?

First and foremost, National Relaxation Day should be a day off.

Add it to school, bank and post office holidays. Stores, which to my sadness never close anymore to observe anything at all, can sponsor sales if they so choose but mostly let's make it a day where people can sleep late, avoid a commute or have breakfast out with the family.

That's a start.

All news networks, cable and otherwise, should go off the air for 24 hours. Instead of the bad and scary, I suggest images of bunnies and unicorns. Exchange footage of suffering and struggle for lion cubs or a field of sunflowers as their cheerful faces bob in peaceful unison when touched by a passing breeze.

Some channels might air hour upon hour of the ancient "Father Knows Best" or "The Donna Reed Show" because despite the fleeting and superficial anxiety of "Princess" not getting the shoes she wants for the party or an equally bland misunderstanding that causes charming conflict between siblings and spouses, all loose ends are tied up quickly and, after approximately 22 minutes not counting commercials, everyone is beaming again.

All professional sports should be cancelled for the day, most especially any activity by the New York Mets.

In addition to no mail (bills, obnoxious mailers from every imbecile running for anything within 300 miles that make me fret about how many trees were felled in the name of this stupidity, as well as glossy catalogs from whose pages I desire everything but can afford nothing) and no TV news, there should be people stationed every mile on public roads -- both urban and rural  -- handing out freshly made S'mores. And corn dogs.

How can one be stressed when eating a S'more? It's impossible. The same goes for a corn dog--holding the stick, navigating the golden crunch of the fried coating, locating the saltiness of the hot dog within....pure relaxation, spicy brown mustard or not.

I advocate that get-togethers, such as those encouraged on Memorial or Labor Day be discouraged. First, because there is simply too much work involved but also because such days commemorate the stressful: Memorial Day means summer is coming and one may not feel ready for public exposure of the spider veins and cellulite that accompany a warm weather wardrobe while Labor Day heralds summer's demise and the inevitability of falling on the ice in your driveway.

So, no parties...people should just drift home -- tummies full, lips greasy -- and recline. Cool damp washcloths can then be applied to foreheads before  fading off for the most celebrated method of observing National Relaxation Day---a nap.

I wish you all a relaxing day

 

"Princess" is in the upper left.

Party Animals

People like to brag about needing to recover from their wild weekends.

Come Monday, they are hung over or exhausted and may enjoy embellishing a story or two about the revelry. This makes them cool, enviable and, in the right circles, can significantly elevate their social status.

Yours truly is no stranger to an occasional wild weekend. Even mild mannered bloggers have been known to get a little crazy.

Take this past weekend, for example.

Here's what would go down at the water cooler come Monday morning (if I were anywhere near a water cooler)....

"Susan Says..." (yawning and snapping the waistband of her elastic pants as she sloshes coffee into a mug with a picture of a kitten sitting under a rainbow): "Oh, man. Another crazy weekend!!!" Whew! Holy cow!"

Impressionable coworker: "Yo, "Susan Says...," you sure look like you par-tayed har-tay. Fill us in!!"

SS: "Ooooooh, baby, I sure did. Last night was unbelievable!"

IC: "Details, please. We know what kind of a life you live, you lucky stiff! Don't hold back..."

SS: "I know you know. One of these days I have got to calm it all down and not be such a wild thing!"

IC: "Yes, INDEED! You are a wild thing!! So, tell us! TELL us!"

SS: "I really pushed the envelope this time! I hope you can handle it...."

IC (guffawing wildly): "Me, too!"

SS: "Well......on Saturday night I stayed up till about eleven playing with the cats and the laser pointer!

IC: "NO!"

SS: "Yes! They went nuts. They couldn't stop chasing that thing. They were spinning and running and leaping. It was FAR-OUT! I even gave them a pinch of catnip!!!!!!"

IC: "GET OUT! I rest my case---you really do know how to live. I gotta take a lesson from you!"

SS: "Hold on to your hat! As if Saturday night wasn't enough, yesterday Seth and I spent most of Sunday sitting around. I read the newspaper 

and he -- get this! -- took a two hour nap!"

IC: "WHAT? For real??? So he's a real party animal, too!!

 

SS: "He sure is! And then I made pineapple protein smoothies!"

IC: This just gets better every minute. I am so j-e-a-l-o-u-s! How come some people are just so naturally fun loving, so spontaneous? And the rest of us, well...."

SS: "Don't be jealous, man--join us! Next weekend we're planning a ride where there are usually some nice cows. We might even get to catch a glimpse of two horsies that live nearby."

IC: "REALLY???"

SS: "Then, as if that isn't over the top, there's this guy who sells corn on the side of the road and it's on the honor system! You put money into this little metal box!!!!"

IC: "You have got to be kidding! You'd let me do this with you guys???"

SS: "Of course, happy to help spice up your dull little life! You have to reach for the brass ring, dude! We'll show you how it's done!!

IC: "I will be so totally burned out after all that. I don't know how you're even functioning today. I really don't."

SS: "To be honest, neither do I."

Justin Bieber vs. Prince William's Hair

After several weeks away from this blog, I want to thank Justin Bieber for making my return to "Susan Says..." so easy. In fact, I am not even here. This post is writing itself, whistling happily as it works while I have toast with hummus in the kitchen with Buzzy.

Oh, Biebs, you pitiful, talentless, over-promoted little pimple on the ass of the entertainment industry. Your inane comments about Price William's thinning hair have renewed my energy, restored my enthusiasm and, best of all, leave me no choice but to rip you to shreds. After months of leaving you alone, I am freed by your own stupidity.

Ironic, no?

The Biebs, it appears, thinks that the increasingly hairless heir to the British throne should enhance his appearance with the use of the available wonder drugs in the war on baldness. “I don’t know why he doesn’t just get those things, those products. You just take Propecia and your hair grows back. Have you not got it over here?” are his exact words, spoken to the British press.

Oh yeah, I got it.

Me, too.

Has no one told this kid that Prince William will eventually replace his missing hair with a crown? I'm not talking about the cardboard one from Burger King that you like to wear, Justin. I'm talking about a real, freakin' crown. Not to mention, men no longer need hair in order to look good. It's all in the attitude .... just ask Bruce Willis, Michael Jordan, Sean Connery or Jason Stratham.

Me, three.

It is not news that men are as strung out over their appearance and body image as women are. Over the years they've struggled with horrifying toupes, worn uncomfortable lifts in their shoes and even corsets under suit jackets. More recently,  they've endured calf implants so they can make a statement ("Look how crazy I am--I had calf implants!!" is typically the statement) at the beach. Lately, however, as armies of unapologetic and freshly waxed and moisturized metrosexuals stride into the spotlight, the quest for male beauty has become public and unabashed. 

For Justin to spout off about Prince William's hair loss is not only gleefully moronic but also extremely rude. Did the interviewer suddenly ask him specifically about his feelings regarding the dominant balding gene that runs through the bloodlines of the royal family like the Amazon courses through the jungles of Brazil?

Who brings such a thing up? I hope his parents are embarrassed. I would be.

I doubt the prince would bring up the fact that the Biebster's testicles have not yet properly descended or that, with his current hairstyle, he strongly resembles Eddie Munster.

And yes, the prince is clearly losing his hair and has been for years. It hasn't affected his good looks or lessened the number of young ladies who would love to share his royal chambers. While his younger brother Hairy Harry seems to have been spared the pain of follicular challenges and will definitely enjoy a glamorous life, he is still only the second fiddle...and always will be.

I got the hair, bitches.

Hopefully the bright future ahead of Prince William will bring him much opportunity to maintain the patina on the monarchy as well as do good around the world...even if Kate does put on her make-up using not a mirror but, instead, the high polish of her husband's head.

Either way, they have it made.

The Biebs, who has not demonstrated a growth spurt in recent months, sings awful songs to little girls who will forget him soon after the next teen phenom surfaces. Prince William has the lovely Kate, a rich grandma and a date with history.

And, when Kate was recently interviewed by the BBC she was asked about her feelings regarding William's approaching baldness. Her response, "Who cares about his hair, silly! He has a huge penis. That's why I married him!"*

"I mean, seriously, have you seen that thing?"

*Okay, okay. So she didn't really say that.