Thursday, August 8, 2013

Ginger's Life is a Bowl of Toilets... #humor

Years ago, I submitted a very short humorous book to Publish America.  It was so poorly edited, I didn't promote it and they didn't think it was bad enough to pull, so now that it's no longer in print, I've decided to share chapters, but jazz it up with stuff I would add if I typed it today.  I wonder what village is missing the idiot who is trying to sell 50 pages for $419.00 on Amazon. Really!  I couldn't even sell if for $9.00.

 I'll bold the new stuff because I've got a lot of rantin' to do.  *lol*

So, yesterday morning about this time (4:30 ish), Benny (our pooch) and I took my hubby to the airport so he could jet off for a week of fun in Reno.  Oh, he used the excuse of wanting to spend time with his aging mother, but I can see right through him.  The timing just happens to coincide with Hot August Nights, tons of classic cars which he loves, and the opportunity to hang out with all his old buddies from high school days.  Luckily for him, we had flight credits scheduled to expire if we didn't use them, so being the house-ridden old hag I've become, I stayed home to take care of the dog I was so sure I wanted. I might mention that this time of year also coincides with our anniversary, because seventeen years ago, we got married during a Hot August Night (August 1) when his classic car malfunctioned and I believe he said something akin to "Well, since we can't join the cruise, we might as well get married."  Oh...and as for my crack about the dog...I want him, I'm just not sure I can keep up with him.  He's like having a toddler, or at the least, a piece of gum stuck to my shoe...a very demanding piece, but back to the story.

Some of you might be shaking your head at such a dashing dude as my Kelly, but watching the romantic proposal on the Bachelorette Monday night just harkened me back to what I think might have been his to me.  It went something like this after we bought a ring at Montgomery Wards of all places.  "Here, you can either consider this a birthday present or an engagement ring."  

Gee, I had a choice.  How awesome was that?  Since I lived with him already and he had requested I acquire a divorce since he didn't like sleeping with another man's wife, I figured he must have meant the latter.  Now mind you, I'm usually quick with responses, but for some reason, his logic or lack there of leaves my brain spinning while trying to figure out his true meaning.  I'm usually locked in that phase most of the time...have been for eighteen years so it's a wonder I still function.

These days, I forget where I've put my keys, why I walked into a room, where I parked the car at Walmart, yet I can't shake the memory of his "sort of" declaration of affection when he told me he really liked me, wasn't sure what love was, but knew my thighs were much larger than those of the women he usually dated.  I love him dearly, but he's no "Don Juan," so I imagine he must have dated a skinnier girl or two.  I got even with him though. Today my thighs would be the envy of any defensive player on the NFL.  A good friend of his advised him to stop looking for "Barbie" because she wouldn't be interested in him.  Why is all men want arm candy?  If I had taken him solely on his romantic abilities, I would have left him where I found him.  *lol*  Back then he looked like Kurt Russell, today....not so much.  *lol*

But back to my thighs and his comment, which by the way he swears to this day he never said.  I ask you, "Why in the world would I dream up and be unable to forget something like that?"  He doesn't realize half the things he says, but I love him anyway. 

Actually, it would be nice if we could switch legs.  His three pair of knee sox he donned for years have worn all the hair off his calves, his shorts all look like bell-bottoms, and a nice pump would certainly accentuate his thin and shapely ankle.  *lol*  Really, I'm just jealous because he has better legs than I do.

But, I've digressed again.  Hubby has a little attention deficit disorder and wanderlust that far exceeds his wallet.  He drove truck for a while and I thought that might help, but now that he's retired, he complains he might have drove through most of the 48 but didn't have time to see them.  Since he's limited by his funds, he tends to travel the back country roads with Benny and maybe pretend he's on a journey.  Anyhow, he's taught the dog that a motions means it's okay for the Benny to lunge over and enjoy hanging his head out the driver's window. (Benny - not Kelly...although I can't be exactly sure the way they look when they get home.)

Well yesterday, after Kelly got out at the airport, Benny jumped up into the passenger seat.  He has those "poor me puppy dog eyes" and his continual staring at me made me uneasy.  I patted the console and pointed to the back, thinking my suggestion was clear, but suddenly I had 25 pounds of pooch in my lap, his toenails digging into my fat calves, and him fidgeting for the window to go down.  I almost steered into the big rig in the next lane, and ended up pulling over and throwing him in the back seat.  He didn't move the rest of the way home and  I think there might have been a mis-communication on my part, in addition to being the queen of cottage cheese advertisements, I have little black and blue dots all over my thighs.  Benny might not look big, but he's heavy when you aren't expecting the surprise.  Imagine trying to drive while holding two ten pound bags plus a five pound bag of potatoes...and they don't have sharp nails.

We made it home safely, took a nap, and I spent most of the day following Benny around the yard while he looked for the perfect place to poop.  It was even more fun at 2:30 this morning when bugs the size of bats where dive bombing me and I was trying to hide my shouts of "hurry up Benny," beyond the noise of the thousand tree frogs serenading one another.  I miss my husband!!!!  Oh, did I mention, Kelly calls me daily, but somehow his "I miss you" remarks are hard to accept with all the partying going on in the background, and knowing I'm still here in my pjs, entertaining a self-centered dog.   I'm tired of playing tug of war and throwing toys for him to fetch.  But, I wanted a dog so it's all on me.  If you follow this link, you'll get a little sample of what my days have been like. Click on's a short little movie I captured with my I phone to send to his "dad."

Herewith begins what was published with a few corrections made for editing sake.

Prologue:  If you read the preceding accounting of my life, "Life is a Bowl of Toilets and I Clean Them," then you have some insight into who I am and what I'm about.  Do not assume by the title of this book that I'm by any means giving up on life, it just seems like time races by at breakneck speed, and before you know it, you've become a senior citizen.  So, if you enjoyed my first offering, step back into my life and see if you can find some things with which you can identify.  If you can't...give yourself a few more years.

Long Tall Sally/Short Fat Fanny 
 (I've named my chapters after favorite songs of old)

Take my advice, please.  If you're over fifty and planning to lose weight, you might want to rethink your options.  I had my stomach stapled in 1991 to improve my health, and hopefully, my self esteem.  Fortunately my changes for longevity have improved but my esteem went in the dumper.  It never occurred to compare myself to a balloon that had been blown up for a very long time then suddenly deflated.

Before I lost a hundred pounds, my face was round and firm.  True, it got thin that people assumed I had a terminal disease, and I'm still trying to figure out what happened to whatever held up the skin.  My face slimmed, but my neck blossomed.  NFL players with a seventeen inch-neck have nothing on me.  The only difference is that mine is more akin to a Charpei puppy.  There's a lot of truth to the saying, "s*it runs downhill."  When gravity is involved, everything does.

And speaking of the NFL...why is when the players trounce onto the field and the announcer says "Blobbo Blimson, left tackle, five foot four, three hundred twenty pounds of solid wall," people ooh and ahh--totally impressed with his girth and not minding he's wearing pants that fit like a second skin?  Would a woman ever get away with that on the modeling runway?  "Ladies and Gentlemen, here's Wayta Go, five-foot four, three hundred and twenty pounds of hot sex, sporting the latest in thong underwear.  Boos and hisses?  You bet, and how fair is that?  Face is girls, we just don't have the same opportunities as men.  Spandex is NOT our friend unless we have on a jersey, shoulder pads and a football helmet.

Life seems to drag until you reach twenty-one and then hurdles downhill like a runaway big rig.  As I watched my mother age, my biggest worry was having that "fan-pleated" mouth look, but instead, overnight with my weight loss, I became Howdy Doody's twin.  You know...that "marionette mouth" thing?  Would anyone notice if my top lip was pleated?  Since I no longer have one, it's doubtful and there's no way to remedy it.  As you age, you lose your lip line and if I had a face life, I'd just look like a Chinese snake--slant eyes and a slit for a mouth.  Besides, whatever the surgeon pulled up and tightened would mostly likely be emblazoned with stretch marks.

Oh, and did I mention my new jowls?  Aren't only bull dogs supposed to have them?  Suddenly, hanging at the end of my marionette lines were little excess sprigs of flesh.  Where did they come from and why me, oh Lord?  I would have settled for the pleated look.  Sadly, you get what you get.

The torture didn't end there.  Oh No!  The more weight I lost, the more everything shifted.I was supposed to look better, not worse.  What used to be heavy, but FULL upper arms turned into flesh covered bones with sagging skin that could actually be registered as lethal weapons.  I'd like to caution those of you who haven't actually witnessed the phenomenon.  Stay clear of most women over fifty on windy days.  You can be seriously injured by their wingspans.  And for those of you with arms that resemble thighs...please, please don't wear a sleeveless blouse and hang your arm out the window.  It's not a pretty sight, especially with the skin rippling in the wind.

If you did read my first book, then you know my grandmother was an expert on the plague of aging.  Your breasts, although maybe having already lost most of their perkiness, will eventually resemble a pair of socks with marbles in them.  I went from a 38DD to a 40 extra long and can now only have cleavage if I stand on my head.  To top off my misery, medical professionals call for yearly mammograms and smash your boobs even longer and thinner.  Makes little sense to me.  Surely, a man thought of the torture because another woman would NEVER have put a sister through the pain.  I'm pretty sure if this was a required routine for a penis, it wouldn't be required for long...or short. *lol*

So, just starting my writing career, I received an email request for an interview the other day and I accepted.  One of the questions was, "if you could have lunch with a famous person (living or dead), who would you pick?"  I answered that one without hesitation.  Delta Burke.  Remember her as a southern belle?  She's constantly fought weight issues throughout her career and developed her own line of lingerie.  I would love to ask her why she hasn't yet learned that it takes more than dental floss flung over your shoulder to hold up fifty pounds of flesh.  Is it too much to ask manufacturers to devote a little more material to bra straps?

When I was at my heaviest, I could balance a place-setting on my butt, but now I no longer have one (note from Ginger...the table has returned to normal)  Nothing, nada, zip--just a crack in the back  that leads to to the top of my legs.  What used to be my arse is still there, it just drifted downstream with everything else.  Oh I still have hips--those saddle bags will never leave.  They've decided to hang around just to highlight my lack of rear assets.  I guess with God was building me, someone directed me to the hip line twice and I totally missed the lip one.  I'm supposing you know by now that I don't  look anything like Angelina Jolie.

Oh, and I'd like to share a little-known fact I discovered with you.  Did you know that when your behind sags down your legs and you walk, naked really, really fast around the room, you can mimic the sound of applause?  Not sure when, if ever, that asset would come in handy, but I thought it was worth sharing.  I do apologize for ugly image I've implanted in your mind.

Being a "glass-half-full" type of gal, I do notice some good things, unfortunately they are outweighed by the bad.  I hate the cottage cheese look in my thighs, but now I have ripples of drooping skin that serve as knee warmers.  I'll never be a runway model, that's for sure, especially due to the fact that the increasing vein visibility has tinged my legs lovely blue.  I'll just have to wear long pants for the rest of my life or hope the Maxi-skirt makes a comeback.  On a positive note, I can wiggle into a tight pair of support hose and look like everything is where it should be...except of course, my boobs.  They've developed a mind of their own.  The only downside to being a glass-half-full person is being scared that eventually my teeth will be soaking in it.

It seems strange to me that some menopausal women claim to still have a sexual appetite.  I thought by losing weight I would be one of them, but now I know differently.  I have become even more self-conscious, so all I can do for you is pass along the wonderful advice given by Dorothy on the Golden Girls.  "Whatever you do, do NOT be on top when you have sex.  Before you ask why, bend over a mirror and take a good look.  You'll be appalled.  I'll belt you'll find you identify with melting candle wax.  Then again, if you're on the bottom, you have a whole other problem...your breasts slide into your armpits and disappear.  I was thoroughly when my husband tried to cop a feel one night and couldn't find my boob.  I made a joke and told him it moved into a new zip code, but I wasn't laughing.  A few weeks late, I went to the doctor for my yearly breast exam and he was alarmed because I had a huge mole on my side he'd not noticed before.  I shouldn't have had to explain to a man his age that it was only my nipple.  *lol*

In younger days, I recall a test women applied to determine if their breasts were losing their perkiness.  If you were without a bra and could keep a pencil tucked beneath one of your mammary glands without having the writing utensil drop to the floor, you could consider you still had some elasticity.  I see women these days who go braless and I'm pretty sure they could support the entire telephone book with no problem.  Despite the little shelf life has built for mine boobs to rest on, I refuse to leave the house without proper support.

I wish God had prepared us for aging.  We should have come with a guidebook that explained al the aches and pain we suffer and what we will eventually see in the mirror.  The person who said, "Women are like fine wine...they get better with age," must have polished off a dozen or so bottles before saying something so ridiculous.  Of course, I'm not speaking of everyone.  Some people are blessed with good skin, great genes, or maybe just an awesome plastic surgeon.

Speaking of people in the medical profession...why do all doctors look like they just graduated from high school, and most of them from china.  It is just my imagination of are they getting younger and younger?  I want a doctor who's female, in her mid-fifties, has experienced childbirth, menopause, and has arthritis in at least one joint.  It wouldn't hurt if she was overweight and related well to the aging process.  So far, the closest I came was a little Asian gal who might have weighed ninety pounds dripping wet, spoke with an accent so thick I could barely understand her, and was so short I had to hold her by her labcoat lapels to keep her on the bottom step of the examining table so she could see my tonsils.  According to her, I had a "fo foat."

Having worked at a university and attended over twenty commencement ceremonies, I couldn't believe the number of Asian students who come here for an education.  Since I used an HMO, I firmly believe those letters stand for Hiring More Orientals.  Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not opposed to equal opportunity employment, nor am I prejudiced, but at my age, I need that doctor I described who can relate to the problems I face.  Now that I'm regaining the weight I lost, I really would prefer someone on the chunky side, and I've never seen an overweight Asian.  Have you?

I use humor to get through my days...maybe you could shake a grin.  Here's to ya!

Two elderly men were sitting on a park bench when one turned to the other. "Slim, I'm eighty-three-years-old now and I'm just full of aches and pains.  I know you're about my age.  How do you feel?"

"Me?" Slim says.  I feel just like a new-born babe."
"Really?"  The other raises his brows.
" hair, no teeth, and I think I just wet my pants."


An elderly couple sat together watching TV.  During one of the commercials the husband looks to his wife.  "Whatever happened to our sexual relations?"
She, after a long and thoughtful silence, rubbed her chin.  "You know, I don't know.  I don't think we even got a Christmas Card from them this year."



Caroline Clemmons said...

Thanks for the laugh, Ginger.

Rita Karnopp said...

okay... so I needed a laugh ... and i totally lost it...what a hoot...paragraph after paragraph . . . you are truly the funniest woman I know. You should have been a stand-up comedian!! love you, Rita

Margaret Tanner said...

Hi Ginger,
Loved it, I laughed so loud my hubby dashed into the office to see what was happening, but I can relate to everything you say, droopy boobs, fat bum,jowls, everything, except the varicos veins. Don't have any of them - yet.



Sass Mistress said...

This is really funny! haha I enjoyed this post so much! Keep it up!

Kathy Fischer-Brown said...

Hilarious...and unfortunately true.

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