Rebecca’s Blogging Break

I’ve decided to take a blogging break this summer. (I’ve been blogging for five years nonstop.) I need time to work on my book, finish other freelance projects, and also to enjoy and explore Maine. I want to tell my regular readers, that I try to update daily on Twitter. Please click on the FOR THE BIRDS link above, to find and/or follow me. I’ve risen to the challenge, of being witty in 140-characters or less.

I’ll return in the fall, fresh with new photos, experiences and insights to make you laugh. I’d swear on a Bible, but I don’t believe in it. I hope that you have a super summer. Don’t forget the sunscreen, or you’ll look like Patricia Krentcil.

“The Right to Bear Legs”

imagesWhen you live in a cold clime like Maine, you need warmth during winter. I use our wicked weather, however, as an excellent excuse to not shave my legs. Fortunately, I’m not terribly hirsute. But since I’m a brunette, I have a little leg lawn growing. I’ll soon be strolling around in skirts and shorts, and my legs will be showing. So I’ve got to groom, because I’m too old for the hairy hippie look. I’ve never enjoyed shaving, because I’m kind of a klutz with sharp objects. Although I’ve never seriously hurt myself, I always seem to nick my legs.

In high school I never shaved, to my mom’s chagrin. I can’t count, how many times she screamed: “You’re not European. Shave your damn legs! And while you’re at it, do ‘down there,’ too. You don’t want to embarrass the boys.” But it was the sloppy Seventies, and none of my female friends shaved. We were innocent, suburban Jewish girls, who wanted to live in a Vermont village. I don’t think that any of us achieved that dreary dream. We were too trained by our professional parents. We had a weakness for mall shopping, and schlepping to Baskin-Robbins for Rocky Road cones. None of us were up to mucking manure, milking cows, or being away from creature comforts.

Tonight, I’m gonna be brave and shave in the shower. It’ll be a hair-razing experience. That way, the warm water can wash away the blood. I’ll enlist my husband’s help, because he’s better with bandages. I’ll even bribe him. The next time that his neck needs trimming, I’ll cheerfully assist him. I won’t whine or kvetch. I’ll pretend that I’m a stylist to the stars, and give him the royal treatment. And if he ardently asks for “special, sexy extras,” I might throw in a few freebies.

 

Officer, what should I order at Wing Hong?

imagesHold on to your fortune cookies, kids. Recently, a witless woman in New Hampshire, called 911 for assistance ordering Chinese food. And paid the police price for it. Elizabeth Niemi was arrested and charged with “Misuse of Emergency Services.” Apparently, they didn’t have an official, cop category for: “I couldn’t decide between dim sum or Peking duck.” Frankly, I feel for her. I know what it’s like to be hungry, and overwhelmed by too many tempting choices. Unfortunately, the annoyed officers wouldn’t help with her dish dilemma. They didn’t even find it funny.

Liz, I wish that you would’ve called me instead. Most Jews are experts on ordering oriental food. When I was growing up, we always went out for Chinese chow on Friday nights. Since we were Reform and not remotely religious, it was our substitute for synagogue services. It’s a Semitic, scientific fact, that Jews are genetically predisposed towards takeout. When you don’t follow the Christian holidays, and also don’t wanna cook, you depend on ethnic cuisine for curbing your cravings. I would’ve been happy to help you, providing that you shared your meal with me. (Of course, I’d chip in for the tip.) The cops don’t work for free, and neither do I.

I hope, however, that your court case gets resolved in April. In the meantime, I’d go online and read some Yelp reviews of restaurants. I’d also suggest, stockpiling some local menus. You could also buy in bulk, frozen egg rolls. They taste terrible, but it beats scarfing down prison grub.

“Dead Letter” Delivery to the Deceased

002It finally stopped snowing, and we’re celebrating spring by stepping out. Today at our local cemetery, we saw a strange site: a postal truck. The dude looked like he was delivering letters to the dead.  Maybe he dropped off an Amazon package, at the frozen feet of a marble angel. Why was he there? He probably was enjoying the sweet breeze, or meeting his married sweetie, for a quickie behind the budding trees.

In any event, it made us snicker to see the USPS at a cemetery. He was driving fairly fast, so I didn’t have a chance to talk with him. I hope, however, that our New England ancestors appreciated their mini iPad, eBay Elvis doll, and Swedish sex toys. I’m just guessing, as to the contents of their mail. Perhaps, there was a hidden voodoo spell, tucked inside of an ancient book. A magical miracle that could “raise the dead.” I’m sure that they’re dying to live again. There’s so much excitement that they’ve missed.

Unfortunately, they expired long before computers were created, Honey Boo Boo was born, and Bush stole the election, twice. Truth be told, I envy them. They never had to pay expensive cell phone bills, or worry about becoming fat, from eating too many Twinkies. And although they can’t get laid anymore, they can rest forever beneath billowing, quiet clouds.

“The Muds of March”

muddy-boots-761848It’s sticky, squishy season

though the streets are strewn with snow

we’re sick and tired of winter

and there’s nowhere nice to go.

The blooming buds will burst in May

but March is kinda cold

you cannot strut your sexy stuff

lest you be thought, quite bold.

CHORUS:

The Muds of March are on us, now

make sure, you don’t get stuck

avoid deep ditches, filled with slush

and cities slick with muck.

Soon tourists, will arrive in droves

the mud will all be gone

women will fight, for parking space

and crowd our own salon.

But don’t you fear, the muds will come

next year, they always do

don’t throw away your Wellies

they’ll go great, with your J. Crew.

CHORUS:

The Muds of March are on us, now

make sure, you don’t get stuck

avoid deep ditches, filled with slush

and cities slick with muck.

“Enjoy Your Perversion!”

Recently, I bought a bottle of perfume oil on eBay. When you win an auction, they send you an automated message. I had to childishly chuckle when I saw: “Enjoy Your Perversion!” I was tempted to respond: “I will, thanks!” Unfortunately, aside from the perfume, I don’t have any perversions. I felt forlorn. What’s wrong with me? Maybe I was becoming boring.

Since it’s almost spring, it might be time for a tempting, new perversion. Unfortunately, however, I’m not inclined towards kink. Nipple clamps, anal beads, and anything made of metal that belongs at Home Depot won’t work. So I decided to do some research. Maybe if I knew more about the subject, I could discover my own nasty niche. First, I looked at an online dictionary and read the following depressing definition: Perversion: Noun 1. any abnormal means of obtaining sexual satisfaction, 2. the act of perverting or the state of being perverted, 3. a perverted form or usage. Okay, that wasn’t illuminating or interesting. I went back to my keyboard with rekindled curiosity. I found out that Freud, my favorite Jewish shrink had pondered perversion. So Sig said: “All humans are innately perverse.” His theory was considerably more complex (and controversial) than that simplistic statement, but that’s the psychological gist. I guess that I’m a honorary pervert, by virtue of being alive.

Therefore, if we’re all “innately perverse,” then why bother to seek out any additional abnormalities? It takes too much erotic effort. I’d rather be bike riding or meandering around Maine. While “delicious debauchery” sounds sexy on paper, in person, it involves swinging, sweaty strangers, sickening social diseases, and shitty sheets that stink of stale smoke. Sorry, I’ll stick with my safe, monogamous marriage and my Perversion perfume. I just won’t share (or bare), where I’ll place a few, dark drops.

Vaguely Vaginal Vagaries

I once had a psychic seriously say, that I’ve been reincarnated several times. In each lifetime, however, I was a woman. That makes sense, since men are a mystery to me. You’d think then, that I’d be an expert at being female. Wrong. Apparently, I’ve had to relearn the same lame, laborious lessons multiple times. Perhaps, I’m just a late bloomer. In any event, I’ve never gotten the hang of having a vagina. They require regular maintenance and tune-ups, too. According to American advertising, you also have to daily deodorize or douche or decorate the damn thing. Sorry, but I refuse to primp my pubes. I’m just a “wash & go” kinda dame.

It seems unsophisticated to admit it. Although I’m open-minded, I don’t like airing my private parts in public. Maybe it’s my modesty. Not even with my gynecologist, who’s an authority on the subject. Obviously, I don’t have a “tissue issue” with writing about them. That’s because, you can’t see me blush pussy pink. The vagina was “under cover” and clothes for generations. Now, women are casually talking about their twats, like they’re trading muffin recipes. Today, gals give dirty details about their vajajays to total strangers. There’s no hiding them anymore. The vain vag is in Vogue.

Therefore, I’m taking a stand against The Vagina Dialogues. Listen up, loquacious ladies: If I wanted to hear about your stinky secretions, painful periods, or worrisome warts – I’d ask. (Additionally, I don’t wanna know about any penile problems.) Please keep your uncomfortable coochie to yourself, and no one will get either hurt or offended.

 

 

“You don’t have to be a rocket scientist…”

I’ve always abhorred the stupid saying: “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist…” People usually state it, when they’re intimating that intelligence isn’t required to comprehend something. Guess what, guys? I finally met a real rocket scientist, and he could barely carry on a conversation. I know, you’re probably thinking: “Well, Rebecca, maybe you had to be a Mensa member to understand him. How high is your IQ?”

Folks, I’m fairly smart. I prefer PBS programs, for example, rather than redneck, reality TV shows. I don’t need to be an Albert Einstein or Stephen Hawking, however, to know when someone isn’t making sense. I’ve sorta lost respect for rocket scientists now, because he was a complete klutz. Frankly, I’ve had more meaningful, verbal encounters with Kmart cashiers and our moronic mailman.

Therefore, I’ve decided to substitute the “rocket scientist” part of the expression. Instead, I’ll say: “You don’t have to be a Walmart worker…” or even “You don’t have to be a horse handler…” That will make as much sense as anything else. I also apologize in advance, if I’ve inadvertently offended any authorized, rocket scientists out there. I’ll assume that you dudes deserve, all of the accolades heaped upon your big brains. Just don’t expect any more from me.

 

Farting in bed & other marital mishigos

imagesI spent many decades being single, and married lamentably late in life. When we got hitched, however, I was worried. Would I be expected to be on my best behavior, 24/7, 365 days a year? (Excluding Election Day, Black Friday, and Yom Kippur. I’m an absolute bitch when I atone.) If so, I was in serious trouble. Not right away, of course. I had planned to pretend to be perfect. Since I wanted my husband to be duped as long as possible, before I farted in bed.

Now, we all have gas. Even if you’re a Victoria’s Secret model. Although you might look somewhat sexier, farting in a thong. But when you’re dating a new, promising person, you try not to fart in front of them. Especially, if you’re a woman. You’re supposed to wait awhile. I’m not particularly prone to gas, unless I eat Mexican food for lunch, but I have my moments. When I finally hooked my husband, though, I knew that I had to “set my odiferous flatulence free.” (With the windows wide open, and a big fan blowing.)

Fortunately, he’s understanding and accepting. He also doesn’t have major issues with human bodily functions. So the first time that I was a gassy lassie in bed, he just joked about it. I believe, he might’ve been a bit competitive with me. You know how goofy guys are. If they could host farting contests as adults they would. They’d probably have personal performance plaques, and tall trophies too.

We still have our psychological stuff, all couples do. (We’re also working on carefully closing the toilet lid, and slowly squeezing the tube of toothpaste at the bottom.) But at least, we don’t offend each other with our farts. We just keep them completely covered by the quilt.

 

“Meet Me in Miami”

I‘m sick of snow, I’m tired of cold

I need a winter break

my skin seeks sun, my spirit sinks

my aging ankles ache.

Though March is knocking on the door

it can’t come quick enough

I’m dreaming of a golden beach

with sand that’s smooth not rough.

CHORUS:

Meet me in Miami, ‘cuz I need to have some heat

I’ll sip an icy Coke, with warm water at my feet

I’ll stash away my sweaters, they’ll be safe until the fall

I’ll slip on a sarong, that I purchased at Maine mall.

I‘ll ignore the stinging fish

and the trashy tourists, too

I’ll refuse to buy a beer

from a jerk who wears J. Crew.

I‘ll bask, I’ll baste, and I will burn

my body, ’till it’s brown

and when my hubby hugs me

I will holler “Put me down!”

CHORUS:

Meet me in Miami, ‘cuz I need to have some heat

I’ll sip an icy Coke, with warm water at my feet

I’ll stash away my sweaters, they’ll be safe until the fall

I’ll slip on a sarong, that I purchased at Maine mall.