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.

It's Always Something

I haven't posted for a while. My heads been in a muddle since receiving news last week that a dear friend had passed after an amazingingly courageous nine year battle with cancer.

She left behind two beautiful sons who are mostly grown but she had lots of parenting left to do as well as daughtering, sistering and friending...and lots more stuff, too. 

In other words, 53 is just too young to say goodbye.

So, that's been on my mind and has kept my heart heavy.

In the midst of this, there have been a few life obligations that have also weighed on my tiny, little mind. I have worked to cross them off my list...and, with their completion, breathed a sigh of relief as they were a source of stress.

Lo and behold, this morning -- as is the nature of life -- another stress-inducing obligation popped up on my personal horizon and I found myself saying, "Man, it's always something, isn't it?"

Well, yes, it is. It is always something.

Thank God.

Fantasia vs. Chaka or Happy Memorial Day to All!



It looked even worse on TV and yes, that is a slit
on the side of the leg.

I am still recovering from Fantasia Barrino's outfit on American Idol last Wednesday.

Between her and Chaka Khan (who I have loved since she sang with Rufus many years ago), I have had to lie down frequently with a cool rag across my forehead and a basket of assorted carbohydrates by my side.

Chaka then...

I am all for people expressing themselves in their outfit choices. After all, taste is personal...individual...and risky.

And I would NEVER comment on anyone's weight unless you're LeeAnn Rimes, that skinny husband stealing witch.

Fantasia and Chaka took a risk by packing their very "solid" selves into unflattering outfits and are taking the heat as a result. Such is the life of a diva.

The worst part is that they both sounded terrible.

....and now.

Fantsia simply looked insane. I think Chaka lost some weight recently and was determined that we all knew it...but her skin tight sequined Spanx, worn on the outside, was not a good look.

Ewwwww.

Luckily I have the Memorial Day weekend to recover.

Have a great holiday weekend everyone and remember, we are celebrating a lot more than a watermelon cut into the shape of a bowl and filled with more watermelon.

A Memorial Day treat

And, we are honoring a lot more than the mega-sales at Macy's...

Thank a veteran if you have chance to. If not, say a prayer for the souls of all those who gave their lives.

And, don't forget to have fun!

Here's Chaka -- circa 1974 -- when she sounded  g-r-e-a-t...









High Anxiety

Today I ran across some erroneous information and feel the need to set the record straight.

Some idiot did some research (it consisted of playing Twister with his assistants and your tax dollar probably paid for it) and has come to the misguided conclusion that people who experience extreme anxiety emit a scent that, while undetectable to humans, is repellent to mosquitoes.

Ha.

I am the Empress of Anxiety. If tiaras were handed out for worry and self-induced stress -- based on either real or imagined events -- I would be wearing a towering stack of jeweled crowns because, simply stated, worry is what I do best. It's my thing. My forte. My spec-i-ality.

I can take any event and twist it into a pretzel of horror over which I will perspire and twitch for hours.

Ex. Are you a minute late? Then you must be in a ditch, outstretched hand a few inches short of being able to reach your cell phone as you bleed into the mud. Or, are you traveling outside of the tri-state area? A tornado, flood, hurricane will affect your plans. Taking a cruise? I hope you're a strong swimmer.  Enjoying an outdoor event? Beware of drive-by shootings. Adopting a puppy? What if it grows up to be Cujo?

Pretty impressive, I know...and I'm not even warmed up. Yet, despite this so-called "research," mosquitoes love me more than any other human alive today.

Is "Susan Says..." here???

In fact, this summer I should finally act on my plan to get rich by renting out my services at summer parties...

If I attend your backyard soiree, no one else will get bitten. The mosquitoes will ignore all others and just line up in a hovering queue to wait their turn to chomp any exposed part of my irresistible flesh... including eyelids, knuckles and the backs of the knees.

This has gone on since I was a succulent little girl and my mother, ahead of her time in her mistrust of harsh chemical sprays, tried all kinds of natural, homemade potions to save me.

Remember this?

Lemon eucalyptus...useless. Clove oil...nope. Even the popular Skin-So-Soft by Avon -- used successfully by hunters and fisherman in the swamps of  Louisiana where mosquitoes are the size of peacocks -- could not stave off those flying bloodsuckers once they'd caught sight of my chubby arms.

And, being card-carrying Hungarians we, of course, tried garlic. So, not only did I stink to high heaven but I got bitten to hell and back anyway.

What?

Calydryl was our choice.

Vampires steered clear of me, though. And that wasn't a bad thing since, at the time, I had little interest in living forever in a drafty stone castle. Although it seems like a perfectly acceptable lifestyle to me now.

As a kid, I was a connect-the-dots of calamine lotion every summer evening. My mother would shake the bottle vigorously as she dreamed up new combos of herbal aromas while liberally daubing me with the pink liquid, dmonishing me to "sit still" until it dried.

Back then adults used to comment on how sweet I must be to make the mosquitoes love me so much.

For a while this made me feel special despite the red, itching welts that covered my body. But I soon decided that I would rather taste like curdled milk spiked with urine than endure the voracious devotion of every mosquito in New York City.

I can't imagine who this guy based his research on. They must have been amateurs when it comes to real anxiety--just pretending to lie awake at night muttering  about flesh eating bacteria, pit bull attacks and David Wright's fragile emotional health.

"Why, oh why, have I never reached my full potential??

Whether anxiety invites bites or bites cause anxiety, I already have my first one. With Memorial Day less than a week away, it's right on time.

Hanging Tough Around the Finger Sandwiches

I attended a bridal shower yesterday and had a lovely time.

Held under a tent, I sat at a lace-draped table and partook in the traditonal manifestations of commitment and love that result in the coming together of friends and family on a beautiful afternoon as well as the forcing of a perfectly nice young woman to wear a paper plate on her head.

The dreaded ribbon hat

But enough about that, people.

Love, shmove, I say--this is about finger sandwiches! And Susan Says loves her some finger sandwiches.

Tuna and cucumber, egg salad and chicken to name but a few...piled in tempting pyramids, there were thousands of them...maybe millions. In fact, I am quite sure there may have been a billion. Yes, a billion finger sandwiches.

If, in my building delirium, I had overturned the tables, tipping over the tiered trays and platters, I could have rolled around in them and still had plenty to enjoy with iced tea and lemonade once the fever passed.

But guess what? Susan Says is trying to lose weight.

Punishment enough under normal circumstances, cutting back on a day when there are a billion finger sandwiches within stampeding distance and the only thing between them and my tummy is a bunch of frail old ladies, is a feat of superhuman and character building self control.

Factor in trays of lady fingers with clotted cream and individual strawberry short cakes served in teeny little teacups and the fact that I did not begin speaking in tongues was pretty amazing.

And I love you, too, petit fours.

Thank the good lord there weren't petit fours* or all would have been lost.

I cannot resist a petit four under any circumstances so when attempting to stick to my goddam diet fully embrace this lifestyle change of eating in a more healthful manner, I try to avoid environments where they may be present...bridal showers are risky.

There could be a snarling, snapping pit bull blocking my path and I would toss him aside with one swipe to get at a tray of petit fours. The Berlin Wall could not have kept me from petit fours. 

Back off, Cujo. You're going to lose.

Finger sandwiches are a close second.

When the hostess announced that it was time to attack the finger sandwiches eat, I kept seated for a few moments to gather my strength.

Watching the trays carefully, I was prepared to strike like a crazed mongoose if I felt the towering and artfully arranged piles of cunning little sandwiches, crustless and cut in triangles, were being significantly diminished by the locusts disguised in heels and colorful summer dresses.

After visualizing terrifying combinations of cellulite, thunder thighs and back fat for several minutes, I rose and slowly approached the table,

Dr. Oz crusading against cellulite.

Breathing exercises helped as I concentrated on keeping my balance in the tent-shaded grass.

I grew closer and closer, nonchalantly taking a plate from the stack. Instead of following my impulse to bend at the waist and eat straight from the platters using no hands, I placed no more than four on my plate and, as Buzzy does when he is given a piece of ham, took my food into a corner and growled while I ate.

And I did not go back for seconds. Victory was mine.

I tried not to look at the food table for the duration of the event.

So, here I am...guilt free and feeling feisty. Today, finger sandwiches. Tomorrow the world.

* I used to think that petit fours meant "small fours" but it really means small ovens.