Edward is a Bleep

     UPDATE ON THE ALL IMPORTANT BEEPING MATTER:  For those of you who may not be familiar with this problem, you should immediately read yesterday's post as you never know when an insidious beep could infiltrate your home.  You need to know the solution.
     Well, actually, that's a slight exaggeration.  It turns out that unless you invite over that sink of dirty  dishes wonderful husband of mine, Edward, your home will be safe.
      Despite my asking him whether he had checked his closet and his answering in the affirmative and my asking him again and his saying that there was nothing in there that could possibly beep, and then my asking him to check again nonetheless and his getting annoyed and then my asking him to go through the closet again since the beeping was continuing and we were going crazy and he got mad, I went into the closet myself.  What did I find in plain view?  An old cell phone that had been left on and was beeping due to a low battery. 
      Because I am a peace loving woman and I am fearful of being locked up with women who haven't had sex in a very long time, Edward lives today. 
   

If You Read This, Beep

     We are being tortured.  A slow, insidious, painful kind of punishment. It is so bad that I fear for my mental health.  And as a result, there is tension between me and that hacking cough wonderful man I am married to, Edward.  Even the dogs seem to be affected. No, we haven't checked into Guantanamo prison or gone for some kind of couples encounter weekend.  We are safely at home.
     The problem?  There is a beep.  A persistent, annoying, electronic beep that is coming from parts unknown.  It goes off every few minutes, and it can't be stopped.  It's coming from Edward's office, which is directly across from the room where we -- more importantly -- I, sleep.  I find myself waiting for...and there it is, the beep.
     To remediate this situation, I have tried:  removing all things that plug in from his office, except the computer, and blaming Edward.  While the latter provided some satisfaction, it did not stop the beeping.  Nothing has stopped the beeping.  We have turned off the computer.  Still the beeping.  Am I to spend the rest of my days being beeped?
     Could this be a message from the beyond?  Oh God, is it my mother-in-law again?
    

     FAMILIY UPDATE:  My eldest niece, Babu, has had her name legally changed to Fontaine.

A Complaint? I Have Grounds

     The barrista at Starbucks was putting down coffee drinks for the young women in line in front of me with a wink, a smile and a flirtatious comment.  "Here's your macchiatto, extra heart, I mean hot, sweetheart.  I hope you really enjoy it and the rest of your day".  It was stupid and corny, but I was looking forward to my turn, and then it came.  "Ma'am, here's your venti, skim latte".  What?  That's it?  Where's a manager when you need one?  But then what would be my complaint?  That the barrista  failed to provide sexual harassment with my order? 
     Despite my commitment to overall high maintenance to keep everything together, it was apparently starting to slide at age 53.  Was it enough just to be a great intellect? Could I accept that my life had come to that?
     Then, a momentous thing occurred.  One day, in the city, I was looking in a store window when a man of about age 35 approached me.  Now he was no __________ (fill in the blank with the name of your favorite handsome male celebrity) but he was a decent looking guy who, from a quick up down and sideways appraisal, did not seem mentally deranged.  He asked if we had met at New York University.  I answered no, and he was on his way.  I finished my window shopping and preceded to the corner where he was waiting for the light to change and I said to him, oh I am so clever, "No, you have mixed me up with some other 22-year- old".  We both laughed heartily then started chatting as we walked down the street.  "What do you do for a living?" we asked each other.  This seemed reminiscent of something that I couldn't quite place, and then it hit me.  I used to have conversations like this when I was dating more than 25 years ago.
     He pulled out his phone and said, "I'd like to continue this.  Where can I reach you?"  Internally, I started to question his reality testing and his overall judgment. I responded, "I'm an old, married woman".  Yes, that is what I really said.
     Sometimes it's good to be a great intellect.
     
   

Grandma is a Viper

     Yesterday, when I was standing behind this old crone at the cash register at Whole Foods, I realized that though I may become just like her someday, I really don't like old people.  The crone looked, like many of them do, really nice from the outside.  But her sweet grandma exterior belied the viper within.  While there was a long line of us behind her waiting to buy stuff needed for the Thanksgiving holiday, she was checking out the price of each item as it was rung up, to make certain that she was not being overcharged.  Her demeanor suggested her suspicion of the cashier as having a personal vendetta against her.  When the cash register receipt was produced, she attempted to double check the addition - as if there has ever in the history of computerized cash registers been an addition error - before she deigned to swipe her credit card to pay. 
     I wanted to strangle sweet, little grandma and judging from the faces of others on the line, I don't think I was alone in my venal, murderous thoughts.
     Of course, I could have totally misjudged this incident.  I am, after all, going through menopause and am a little cranky.

 

Of Me I Sing

     When you're self-involved, it can be hard to accept that you are not good at everything.  And some things, for the sake of those around, should not be attempted.  For example, I would like to sing but all I can accomplish is a really loud facsimile of singing without pitch or hitting any recognizable notes.  Once, when I was in a school musical, I was told to speak the songs, not sing them.
     Oh, excuse me, News Flash!  Edward, that indelible stain on my collar sweet, loving husband of mine, needs to interrupt to inform me that our neighbor is walking her dog.
     I was told to speak the songs after watching the director and the pianist as well as my fellow cast members cringe when I opened my mouth.  So instead, I yelled the notes -- to some effect, I must say.  Good thing the musical was a comedy.
      When I first started taking jewelry-making classes at the local community college a few years ago, it was all so foreign to me, particularly soldering little pieces, that as I was working away at my bench in total frustration, I continually muttered profanities, some of which were more creative than the jewelry I was creating.  There was a culture in the class of mutual support so that even if someone's work was only fair, the focus was on providing positive feedback.  But once I turned out a piece that was so bad, a classmate looked at it, attempted to make some positive statements, and finally exclaimed, "It's just awful."
     These deficiencies are hard to accept, but somehow I muddle on, reminding myself of the truly fabulous person I really am.  
   

No One Gets My Humor

     The other day, Kitty, our impossibly flexible Pilates instructor, called my cell and asked me to inform our Pilates reformer class that she would be a few minutes late.  I made that announcement, but also said that Kitty asked the class to warm up with Kegel exercises. For the uninitiated, Kegel exercises work the pelvic floor and, among other benefits, help with sexual gratification in both men and women. They are, of course, never a part of a Pilates class, but I have to find my fun where I can. 
      Like last summer when I was getting into my car and passed two guys doing work at my house speaking to each other in Polish.  I said, "I know what you're saying about my husband.  It's all true,  but I want you to stop saying it."  I thought that was hysterically funny. They didn't.
     Or when I was visiting my mother-in-law, Brunhilda, to celebrate her 90th birthday and bought her a box of condoms.  At first, she couldn't figure out what they were but when she finally got it, she was so unnerved she told me to throw them down the trash compactor immediately. 
     Or when Thor, my trainer, gave me a card from his trip to Vegas advertising an escort for hire, and I put that card in hubby Edward's wallet.  Then, in front of Edward, I told him I was going into his wallet to look for ones, and I pulled out the card, feigning shock and dismay.  Edward turned a shade of pasty white and looked a little woozy.  What could be more fun?
     I just love myself.