Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Five: Ma’am’s debacle Thanksgiving grocery list because of ….

We all eventually get to the age of needing readers. Whether we purchase from our local drugstore or have to unfortunately get via a prescription. 

Confused Husband and I have been fortunate thus far. We are able to grab them from various shops when need be.

I have some black cat eyed with rhinestone and other fun colors. I only use them for reading. I keep them planted throughout the house for easy access.

Unlike Confused Husband. He loses his consistently. I picture a Yellow Brick Road but, in his case, a reading glasses road for miles of lost specs. Perhaps there is a mountain called Glass with all of his misplaced readers. An island of lost glasses. 

If I add up weekly how many times he loses his readers and has to replace them,we could have gone on SEVERAL trips this year.

So, why did I think it was safe sending him to the store to do the Thanksgiving dinner shopping with a list that he would have to read? Chances are he would be glassless and it would be like asking Helen Keller attempting to read hieroglyphics. 

Hours later, Mr. Magoo/ Ray Charles appears. What he pulls out of the shopping bags is alarming and much like a Thanksgiving dinner menu nightmare.

First of all, he presents with much flourish and fanfare an enormous frozen DUCK. Yes, you read that right, with or without your readers.

Who the hell wants to eat Donald Duck on Thanksgiving? Come to think of it, we have NEVER cooked nor had duck in our home.

He looks crestfallen when he puts on my rhinestone cat glasses, and sees he has brought home a fucking frozen duck. Then attempts to pivot with”Aren’t there people who make a dish with a turkey AND a duck? ” Smiling sheepishly and looking idiotic at the same time in my black cat-eye rhinestone readers. I want to whack my glasses off his face, yet I care way too much for my glasses.

At this point, most would skulk away with their goods and go through the bags to make sure that was the only blunder. Not this guy! He is a glutton for punishment. He whips out one yes, you read that right, turnip. A singular lone turnip. Which on the list said TURKEY. No one in this house eats turnips. He should know this, but look who I am talking about. I point out it says Turkey, NOT turnip, and he didn’t even get a turkey; he brought home a duck. I also question:” Why would he get only a singular turnip?” He responds:” Because it wasn’t plural.” He assumed I only needed one.

He then presents a can of Spam like some third-rate magician. I am GOBSMACKED!!! When in our ENTIRE marriage did he EVER see a can of Spam in this house?! What are we in the 1950s?! He vigorously gestures towards the word BRIE on the list. I wrote down BRIE as in cheese. Not SPAM as in pseudo-meat in a can.

It just gets worse from there. He whips out Cheetos and flowers instead of the CLEARY written cauliflower that is smack there on the list.

Creamed corn is now ears of corn and cream. Pastry shells are substituted for paste and pasta shells.

Our Thanksgiving menu is as follows: Duck with a side of Cheetos and paste, pasta shells, and a turnip. Corn on the cob, served with a side of cream. La pièce de résistance is the Spam.

The final item he presents is a pair of reading glasses he bought at the grocery store as he was checking out….

Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Four: Ma’am gets a TED Talk….

As we head towards almost being full-time empty nesters, I feel more and more attached to the family dog. He brings me comfort, companionship, and allows me to mother him.

I am constantly thinking about his needs and wondering if he is happy and, hopefully, not lonely when we are at work. I have been thinking about getting another dog to keep him company, but that would be double the work.

Walking home one afternoon, I pop into our local pet store. There are two employees there. One retired man named Dave, who works several days a week to keep busy he informs me. He looks like a retired Professor. The other is a maybe 19 or 20-year-old named Jamal, who has ear buds in, and at first I think he is talking to me, but then I realize he is on the phone talking to his “Brah, about some girl who was playing him.” I look at Dave, and we shake our heads about this young generation always on their phones and on social media.

I ask Dave about toys that will keep my fur baby entertained and not lonely when he is home alone. I think of Kevin from the movie Home Alone and all of the shenanigans he got into while home alone.

Dave gives me a lecture on all of the various toys and activities they carry for our furry friends. I feel like I am at a TED Talk with the Professor. I am losing interest and patience. I am overwhelmed, and look over at Jamal for help, but he is now engrossed in a TikTok with some loud music that he is dancing to. Dave drones on and on, now he is talking statistics and the lifespan of a pet based on the toys one chooses.

I am freaking out in my head! IF I choose the wrong toy, is that an early death sentence for my pup? I am SHOOKETH! I begin to sweat and really try and listen to Dave. I feel like I am diffusing a bomb and have seconds before it blasts. I never realized one could experience such utter stress in a pet store.

In Desperation, I grab a stuffed animal that looks like a cross between an ostrich and a flamingo. It squeaks and makes a crinkling sound. Dave makes a face. I can tell he is disappointed in my choice. (BOOM!). He reiterates how I need to choose an item that will allow my pup to explore, grow, be nurtured by, and curb his loneliness. Unless I book a safari for my pup, I don’t see anything on the shelf that ticks all of those boxes.

I take a mushy ball thing off the rack that has a hole in it to stuff treats, and offer this to Dave as my choice. He clucks his tongue in dismay and says rather arrogantly: “Have you not been listening to me?” I have failed Dave again. I suggest that Dave choose for me. He looks at me like I have just asked him for crack.

I glance over at Jamal for help, who is now on Instagram adding a story to his timeline. I hear Dave say something like: “The choice you make is of the utmost importance! You cannot ask some random person to choose for you!”(Who the hell does Dave think he is? Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice?! ) I start to laugh and say out loud:” Easy there, Ollivander, perhaps the toy will choose me!”

Again, Dave gives me a look of disgust as he obviously didn’t get my Harry Potter reference! (Some Professor he is!) Dave tries a new tactic and says, “When you leave for work, what do you put out for your pet?”

I tell him, fresh water, carrots, and we leave Seinfeld on because he is fond of Kramer. Dave glares at me like he is about to call Social Services for a bad pet parent. With nostrils flaring, he bellows: “Is he a rabbit?!” I am dumbfounded! “Dave, you work in a pet store, don’t you know carrots are great for dogs?!” Jamal has stopped dancing and is looking at us.

Apparently, no one has ever challenged Dave before. Dave is clearly finished assisting me. He steps away and signals for Jamal to take his place. Jamal sashays over to me and says, “What’s up?” I want to say: “I will tell you what’s up, Jamal. Your co-worker has kept me here, lecturing me on dog toys while you have been dancing, and evidently, I am a bad pet parent because I feed my dog, who is not a rabbit, carrots.”

I just smile and say, “I am trying to find a toy to keep my dog entertained.” Jamal shakes his head and says, “I hear you.” I smile! Jamal, unlike Dave, hears me. He pulls off a couple of things from the shelf. He tells me about each one, but in simplistic terms that I can understand, such as:” This is cool because it’s a chewy and a pillow. This one has music, but the tunes suck. This one needs batteries, but it rolls around and he can chase it and play with it.”

I find myself smiling a little too enthusiastically at Jamal, which may come across as creepy. But I am thrilled with Jamal’s laissez-faire salesmanship. Who knew this Gen-Z actually was a better salesman than the pitiful Willy Loman, aka Dave?!

I purchase the pillow/chewy, and the rolly thing with lights that rolls around the house. Dave meanders over to view/critique my purchases. He sniffs and haughtingly states:” So predictable.” I ignore Dave’s jab and again smile crazy at Jamal. I say rather loudly: “Thank you, Jamal, for your insight and expertise! I will be sure to drop an email to your managers about how wonderfully helpful you were!”

I wait for Jamal to respond. He is back on his phone, telling his friend how he “Just sold another customer one of those scrotum-looking toys that roll around like a saggy ball.” And he bursts out laughing. Dave gives me a “I told you so!” look. I choose to ignore this comment and the ire of Dave. I head home with my saggy ball.

UPDATE: My fur baby is thrilled to chase after his saggy scrotum all day! I heard that Dave was let go from the pet shop after insulting a woman by telling her she looked exactly like her pug. I sent an email suggesting they make Jamal a manager. I also follow Jamal on Instagram.

Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Three: Ma’am is an island…

When one is young and carefree, and asked ridiculous questions like, “If you were stranded on a deserted island, which five items would you bring?” You, being a young, not yet cynical adult, answer gleefully:” A GREAT book, George Clooney, a bottle of wine, a banana tree which you could plant and watch it grow, providing food. Then you would watch George climb up the tree, picking bananas for the two of you. Last but not least, a tent where you and George would lie and look at the stars.

What naive, foolish, young, stupid answers. Now, in the twilight of my life, I realize that my list has changed dramatically! First and foremost, yes, I would still bring George, but I would also have to bring Confused Husband because he knows how to assist with my hot flashes as well as aches and pains. We would need George to shimmy up the banana tree for us because neither one of us could shimmy at this stage.

Next, an incredible Harry Potter-like tent with ALL of the accouterments! I would need AC! Not a dumb fan made out of leaves, but REAL AC. I also believe in this scenario that Confused Husband wouldn’t be turning into the Thermostat Nazi, because let’s face it, we are stranded on a deserted island, so who is paying the AC bill? At this stage, does it even matter? The tent would have a spa-like bathroom, a fridge that restocked itself with copious amounts of cheese and goodies. , an icemaker, a TV for Netflix, and Prime, a library. Also, throw in a washer and a dryer.

Now, perhaps this is a cheat, but Confused Husband would have an ENORMOUS bag with all of my hot flash pills and meds. So, I am counting that as the two of them as one item.

Wine is a no-brainer, but it must be on the island, in massive barrels from a shipwreck that was transporting wine. Since this is my wishlist, it is Rosé. The barrels are floating in the island’s lagoon, so they are always cold.

Obviously, I have given this enormous thought! My point is that as one ages, your priorities shift and your needs change. The Je ne sais quois of one’s youth becomes more realistic and challenging. At the end of the day, it comes down to survival of the fittest. Forget a deserted island, I need a deserted ice berg…

Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Two: Ma’am is technically challenged… 

I admit I am not the most tech-savvy person. I try to keep up with the times. Agents demand that you be on social media, engaging, and commenting with others in the literary industry. You must have a certain number of followers to seem important, and have some literary banter back and forth. I am EXHAUSTED from pimping myself out on social media. When I finally figured out Twitter, everyone was jumping ship and heading to Bluesky. I endeavored to join Bluesky, but all I received were messages for vacation time shares and places to visit with the most extraordinary blue skies. 

I gave up. 

Attempting to understand Instagram and the difference between reels and stories! I tried to engage and then wound up sending a thumbs up or laughing emoji when someone announces something poignant and emotional. I come across as an emotionless, callous, void of empathy buffoon. 

Then there is Thread. I thought this was a seamstress union. Don’t even get me started.

Texting, well, I finally embraced the emojis and bit emojis. Here lies the problem…. For several years now, I have been sending out what I thought were cute emojis. I was the “hip, cool” mom, or so I thought….

For example, when One Too Many returns home on break from college, he usually has an entourage. I send out a blanket text to his posse: “I love 🍆! Would you boys want 🍆with me or 🍕? “

Here is another for my friends. “I am SOOOO in the mood for🍆! Do you want to share some 🍆with me, or would you rather have🍔🌮🥗🌯? “

Not ONE person clarified me sending out copious amounts of eggplant-laced text messages throughout the years made me look like I was a sex addict! My Gay friends “LOVED” this ongoing joke amongst them at my expense: Here is an example of my text to them:” I am craving 🍆!” They text back, so are we!🤣.” I never understood the laughing face emoji in their responses, but I just went along. Like I was in on the joke, which I obviously wasn’t.

In lieu of this revelation, I will now have to change my dentist, whose office texted me::Remeber NO eating after your procedure.” I responded: “Oh no! I have just consumed a 🍆!” My hairdresser has also been acting odd around me. I scrolled through our texts and VOILA! I had offered him a 🍆 if he was craving it.”

I suppose I will now have to GOOGLE Witness Protection Programs for uneducated emoji users who look like they are sex addicts…

Chapter One Hundred Eighty-One: Ma’am updates her CV…

I am a fifty-something menopausal woman on the cusp of madness. Imagine updating my CV this late in life! Professional Qualifications? I am queen of the muffin tops, brain fog extraordinaire, and expert at sweating like a nun in a cucumber patch. Yes, these are my superpowers, and yet I can find no position requesting them.

I am an island of wobbly bits, surrounded by a sea of millennials with perky breasts and not an ounce of cellulite. The ghost of me Christmases past. My bum looks like a gallon of cottage cheese. My breasts hang like a tribal woman from the jungle. I have also become rather hairy. I have a cross between a Salvador Dali x John Waters mustache situation occurring. If I leave it much longer, I can play one of those villains from the silent movies, tying a damsel in distress to the railroad tracks, then looking into the camera and twirling my mustache for dramatic effect.

My face has become an English muffin. I have enough nooks and crannies for at least five pounds of butter to seep into. If I lift my arms, I could take off and fly myself away with my arm-wings. It is tragic.

I am a young woman trapped in an old woman’s body. Time has played a cruel joke on me, and I am not happy. I long for the days of a certain :”je ne sais quoi”.

I am at a crossroads. There are moments when I stare back at the reflection in the mirror and wonder how and when this happened. Was I unknowingly in a coma and awoke like this?

I want to age gracefully and be one of those people who look years younger. Like my favorite character, Elphaba, I too want to defy gravity…

Chapter One Hundred -Eighty: Ma’am and the grapes of wrath…

We had a situation recently within our home. It was not looking good for Confused Husband after the faux pas he made. We have opposite schedules; I work early morning until mid-morning or noon. He comes home at eight or nine at night when I am in bed.

He eats late, and when I wake up at 2:45 am to make coffee, remnants of his dinner are left on the coffee table in front of the couch. I pick up the empty plate and toss it in the dishwasher. Some mornings, depending on his mood, Buddy, our fur baby, will either stay in bed or choose to head downstairs with me for a middle-of-the-night wee in the back garden. This morning, he chose to accompany me downstairs. I let him out in the garden and watched him yawn and do a lazy long wee, not even lifting his leg. Sleepily, he returned to the house.

He bounded into the living room, and I noticed he made a beeline to what I thought was an empty plate on the coffee table. Jumping like a kangaroo, he grabbed whatever was on the plate and ran with it. I chased after him and saw that the plate was not empty but contained GRAPES! (Which are highly toxic to dogs). I was freaking out and chasing him which he thought was grand and we were playing tag. The sleepy dog now had an adrenalin rush and was wagging his tail, running and carrying his prize in his mouth.

My screams awoke Confused Husband from his slumber. Because of the noise, he thought there was an intruder in our home. We tried to corner Buddy, who was now even more excited because Dad had joined in the game. I scooped up the remaining grapes and plate, running into the kitchen, hoping Buddy would chase me. He went under the dining room table with the grape clenched in his jaws.

Confused Husband picks him up, and I attempt to open his mouth, which is shut like an iron trap. He wasn’t giving up his treat for no one. He swallowed it in one full gulp, and I then frenziedly tried to Heimlich him to no avail.

I called the 24-hour emergency vet, who, supposedly being open, didn’t answer. I am FRANTIC! As I am hysterically calling to save Buddy’s life, I look over at Confused Husband and Buddy, who are both half-asleep on the couch. Buddy begins to lick his crotch without a care in the world, unaware that he could be on the brink of death. The Grape Murderer dares to catch a quick nap during all of this turmoil!

FINALLY, someone picks up at the Emergency Vet. They tell me to call the dog poison control center, and then they would inform me what to do next. I am so bewildered. I mean, wouldn’t an emergency vet know what to do? Why are they having me call another place? I call the Poison Control Center, and immediately elevator muzak comes on. The recording says, “We have an unusually high volume of calls at this time. Your wait time is ten minutes.” I wonder how many other dogs are eating toxic objects at this hour of the morning.

While waiting, I Google: “My dog ate a grape, what happens next?” The results are a mixed bag of horror and then nothing. I am even more perturbed. I read that time is of the essence, and apparently, the Dog Poison Control Center hasn’t gotten this memo. Precisely fifteen minutes later, an automated voice tells me that for 189.00 bucks, they will answer my question. I am to enter my credit card info. What the fuckity fuck?

I hang up and call the Emergency Vet back. Now the line is busy. We are at 40 minutes since he inhaled the grape. I feel like Sandra Bullock in the movie Speed, and I am driving a bus about to explode against the clock. My supposed Keanu is now snoring on the couch. I consider serving him something toxic to see how he likes this predicament.

I find an emergency vet online. They will answer my question for five bucks. I hastily put in my credit card info and type in my answer. A cheery photo of a lady in a white coat named Dr. Irina pops up. I wonder if it’s really a fat guy in sweats somewhere in Milwaukee named Stan answering my question. She asks for” Buddy’s age and weight. She asks how long ago he has consumed the grape?” I answer all of her questions and wait. I look over at Buddy, now asleep on his back, snoring away with Confused Husband.

I feel like I have aged one hundred years. While waiting, I called in to work and explained my dilemma. Dr. Irina came back to me and told me to monitor Buddy for the next 12-48 hours and the signs to look for. I am relieved and, at the same time, unsure about the whole thing. The entire rest of my day, I am on “Grape Watch.” I wait for any sign of poisoning. He eats, plays, walks, poops, all like his usual self.

Every hour, I am relieved and feel more at ease. I call our vet when they open, and they tell me the same thing Dr. Irina said. Sixteen hours later, I feel a huge sigh of relief. Confused Husband calls and bellows into the phone that apparently, when I contacted Dr. Irina for my five dollar consultation, I signed up unknowingly for a two hundred ninety-nine year subscription! Again, I picture a fat guy in sweats answering my questions.

I immediately get online and look at what I had signed up for. Sure enough, the fine print says they will charge my credit card for a year’s subscription and I can have Dr. Irina answer up to two questions per week. Again! What the FUCKITY FUCK?! I then contact my credit card company to dispute this and send a nasty email to Dr. Irina telling her that I know her name is really Stan and he lives in his mother’s basement.

We are now a grape-free home. I explain to Confused Husband that he can have grapes in his truck. But because of what occurred, he cannot be trusted to have them in the house. He bellows that I am being RIDICULOUS! I remind him that we are now charged three hundred dollars by a fat guy named Stan in Milwaukee for his faux pas. He has no retort and immediately stops debating this.

Thankfully, Buddy survived his brush with death. He unknowingly has no idea what occurred. He continues to live his best life and is happily ensconced in his bubble of bliss. I on the other hand will continue to attempt to get back the two-hundred and ninety-nine dollars from Stan in Milwaukee. I like Tom Joad have experienced The Grapes of Wrath…

Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Nine: Ma’am and the Menopause Whisperer…

Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. I at times compare myself to a cartoon character living in the real world. Most of my days are ordinary, with maybe one or two extraordinary situations occurring. Perhaps this is because I am a writer, and I live within my head a lot, creating characters and situations that may be absurd to some, but that are totally logical to me.

Somehow the absurdity of my fiction sprinkles into my everyday life. Today was a prime example. Now some of you know that I have always wanted to work in an airport because I thought that would be exciting. I enjoy meeting people and I love to travel. So, it’s a win-win.

I also am obsessed with British and Scandinavian crime shows. I have dreamt about being an Inspector Constable and solving cases in some beautiful village, whilst wearing cute outfits. Like Martin Luther, I have a dream. But, most of my dreams have been thwarted by the evil bitch which exists in all of us ladies and she is called MENOPAUSE!

She is like an uninvited guest, a ghost who haunts your everyday life, a family member you HAVE to invite for Thanksgiving but then winds up living in your basement and NEVER leaves. She is stealth like a Ninja, she is sniper-like in her sneakiness. One day you are just living life, and then she is just there. She is your shadow, your twin, your worst nightmare.

You have brain fog, your body turns into a muffin and you even consider starting a band called “The Muffintops” with your menopausal friends. You are irritable, have mood swings, and become like a Menopausal Hulk.

The worst part of this fun roller coaster ride is the hot flashes and night sweats. You are literary drenched sweating like a nun in a cucumber patch. Searching for coolness in Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall. They occur whenever they want. You are submerged in your sweat leaving you looking like you just fell into a well and Lassie pulled you out.

This is your life. It starts like a bad amusement park ride and years later you are still on this roller coaster ride from hell with no chance of getting off.

Well, today call it serendipitous, call it kismet. Call it whatever you want. Miss Cartoon Character actually in REAL life, at the airport met THE MENOPAUSE WHISPERER!!! I KID you not! I was per usual surveying my terminal when I noticed blood. Yes, blood! I turned into Inspector Constable Ella Crumpet and like a bloodhound followed the trail(which by the way NONE of the hurried passengers seemed to notice as they scurried through the airport.)

I was on the case! The blood trail ended and there was a lovely woman. My Inspector Constable mind raced: Was she a shark attack victim? Did she give birth? It turned out that the victim had banged her shin and didn’t realize it was a bleeder. I quickly went from Inspector Constable to Dr./ Mrs. George Clooney’s wife Dr./Mrs. Doug Ross(like his character from ER). I grabbed a wheelchair and raced my patient and her husband to a quiet spot. I put on my surgical gloves(yes, I carry latex gloves for situations like this!) and assessed the situation.

I put pressure on the wound and grabbed ice from the coffee shop. I diagnosed(15 seasons of watching ER) that my patient may need surgical glue or adhesive strips). I had no idea who I was administering first aid care to. All I knew was that I was admiring her overall look and thinking to myself how effortless she looked even bleeding in an airport. Her flawless face didn’t even have a bead of sweat on it.

We began to converse and it was like for once in my life the skies had opened up, the clouds truly had a silver lining. There was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow! She turned out to be THE MENOPAUSE WHISPERER! She is a REAL doctor who is a menopause expert! Headed to Vegas to give a speech! If there weren’t so many witnesses, I would have kidnapped her and taken her home to whisper my menopause right the hell out of me! I am sure in order to do this”Menopause Exorcism” I would have to be tied to a bed and have my head spun around. But, to get back to my true self and a former size six who still keeps her old clothes hanging in the closet unable to fit a leg into the pants, or squeeze an arm into the shirts I would be willing to do ANYTHING!

I explained how this sweaty muffin top standing before her was not the person I was or was meant to be. She nodded her head empathetically as I listed all of the quests that I had embarked on like I was Sir David Attenborough in search of the rare Heliconious Butterfly, or Galapagos Tortoise. My pursuit of not happiness, but, my pursuit of ending hot flashes which would therefore make me happy.

I gave raw uncensored and painfully graphic details of my Spanx situation and the steps it encumbered. It is not pretty, but it is an everyday part of my life. I am wrapped up like a sausage to secure all of my wobbly bits. My blue print or architectural situation with my bra, is another dirty secret I shared. I went into great detail about how my boobs are(from years of nursing) shrunken prunes perhaps a small B cup. But, I have mastered the art of pushing my back fat forward into my bra cups, therefore making me look like a C cup. It is as though I am a Menopausal magician, a Houdini of hormones.

I explained how these accoutrements made me sweat even more. At home, unwrapping myself from these spandex torture pieces was like the Hoover Dam breaking. The sweat would just spill out of them.

I purged like I was in confession, and the Menopause Whisperer was Father O’Malley giving me penance for my sins. I felt like I finally had someone in my corner. I couldn’t keep her captive much longer. She was taken care of by the EMTs and then whisked away in a wheelchair to her gate. I admit as I watched her go through security leaving me behind, I may have shed a tear or two.

I now wait with bated breath for the Menopause Whisperer to contact me and tell me what my menopausal mission will be…

Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Eight: Ma’am and brilliant conversation…

Ever since we became semi-empty nesters, with our last child away at college, we have had more time to binge-watch shows. A typical night in our home does not involve sitting on the sofa whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears.

The conversations are these: Me to Confused Husband:” You would be the WORST serial killer! You would forget to tie your victim up and buy all of your serial killer paraphernalia with a credit card. You would then answer your phone as I call you to bring home bread and dog food. Your victim who is NOT tied up, and who still has her phone, would snap a picture of you and then run away during our phone convo. Then you would come home and act sheepishly as I scold you for not remembering to bring home the bread and dog food. As this is occurring, a SWAT team will be pulling up in front of our house to take you down.”

Confused Husband to me:” I would TOTALLY know if you were a Superhero! Every time you squeezed into your Superhero tights you would ask me if they made you look fat, or does your cape cover your bum? Does this lipstick match the hue of your superhero uniform? Do you think when I am flying, people on the ground can see my double chin?”

Me to Confused Husband:” We could so buy a barge and live on a canal in England! As long as we have central air-conditioning I am good to go! Look how old those people are who did it! They are a good twenty years older than us!” Confused Husband response:” Um, they are like ten years older than us and they are retired MILLIONAIRES! You would be complaining about EVERYTHING! From the lack of water pressure to the composting toilet. I guarantee that you would be checking into a hotel the first night at the barge.”

Me to Confused Husband:” I would be the BEST spy ever! I observe everything and am extremely NOSEY! I could follow people, and engage with them at a cocktail in a completely different persona! I could be Ellie Crumpet from Leeds who is a computer analyst.” Confused Husband: “You can’t even figure out how to turn the computer on and yet, you are going on a mission as a computer analyst?”

Me: “Okay, I won’t be a computer analyst! I will be the owner of a bookstore.”

Confused Husband:” Why would the owner of a bookstore be at a World Summit of criminals?”

Me:” I would explain that the host is my second cousin and always invites me to his fetes.”

Confused Husband:” Your second cousin is Yuri Greginov the largest arms dealer in the world?”

Me: “Yes, I would explain that our mothers were friends in college and my mom’s cousin Hamish from Scotland had a tryst with Yuri’s mom and nine months later Yuri was born.”

Confused Husband:” Yuri would be your third cousin and your mom’s second. Plus, you are not even Scottish so why is this Hamish coming into the picture?”

Me:” It’s OBVIOUS that you know nothing about trompe l’oeil!”

Confused Husband:” Trompe l’oeil means trick of the eye! Not trick of the tongue!”

Me:” I could definitely murder you and get away with it!”

Confused Husband:” Nope! I would bet that I could seamlessly murder you, dispose of your body, and have an airtight alibi.”

Me:” I HIGHLY doubt that! Listen to my foolproof plan like that lady did in Reykjavík on that Scandinavian detective show we watched on Netflix! I would pour boiling oil in your ear as you slept. You were passed out because I made you lavender crème brûlée laced with sleeping pills. The oil would seep into your brain and stop function. It would be untraceable. Like you had an aneurysm. I would call 911 after I was sure you were dead. Screaming into the phone: “I got up to pee! He was cold and dead! OMG! Get here! Help! I love him so much! we were moving to England to live on a converted barge!”

Confused Husband:” Your plot to murder me has so many holes it’s a piece of Swiss cheese or colander! My plan to murder you is FOOLPROOF! I would take sailing lessons. Then after a year, we would buy a sailboat. We would share with friends and family that we are going to sail along the East Coast. We will throw a dinner for friends and family the night before we set off. Here in front of everyone I will make a heartwarming speech about how you are my soulmate and then gift you with a nice chunk of jewelry. Everyone will see how I adore you and am thrilled to take the love of my life on a trip. Once we are WAY out at sea, I will ply you with wine and you will become so inebriated. Then I will gingerly push you overboard where you will either drown or get eaten by a shark. I will sail another day or two then call in a distress call to the Coast Guard. I will be the bereft widower and all the neighborhood ladies will bring me casseroles and lasagna. Then after about nine months, I will start dating.”

Me:” That is the most RIDICULOUS plan! First of all, buy a sailboat? Have you seen our bank account? Secondly, you a sailor? That’s like me saying I am going to be a Supermodel. Also, chances are I would swim to an island, as you recall from that shark series we watched, my chances of getting eaten by a shark are slim to null. On the island, I would eat coconuts and make shelter like those people from that show that we binged several weeks ago. I would have to become a vegetarian because I wouldn’t be able to kill a rabbit. Instead a wild rabbit would become my pet and I would name him George. I would meet some natives and they would give me their best hut and I would become their leader.”

Confused Husband:” I find that entire scenario to be LUDICROUS! What tribe lives on an island on the East Coast? From your copious amount of wine, you would most definitely drown.”

I do not have the bandwidth to poke all the holes in his sloppy plan to murder me. Hands down, mine is the better plan.

We decide to order pizza and watch a new series about city dwellers who move to a dilapidated farm and renovate it. As I am ordering the pizza I hear Confused Husband say: “I could become a beekeeper like that guy…

Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Seven: Ma’am reflects on the holidays…

As we get closer to Christmas. It’s the traditions, I have been thinking about lately. When you are a young child and still have that innocence, many aspects of Christmas are believable. But as one gets older and more cynical, there are in my opinion more questions than answers.

What exactly made Egg Nog a holiday drink? Does anyone really like plain Egg Nog? Isn’t it much better spiked? Has anyone ever died from salmonella poisoning from the nog? Did Crazy Great-Great Aunt Helen really invent spiked nog? Is that our family’s claim to fame?!!

Moving on to damn Fruit Cake! Used as doorstoppers, many moons ago and perhaps even today. Is it the same batch of Fruitcakes from its inception? The origins of fruitcake can be traced back to ancient Mesopotamia, around 3000 BCE, when the Sumerians first combined nuts, dates, and figs into dense, chewy cakes. These cakes were made as offerings to the gods who controlled the rains, harvests, and rivers. A lot of good that did them! I surmise it’s the original batch and they are just recycled every year. I have yet to meet a person who has EVER eaten one.

What credentials did the Three Wise Men have to be labeled Three Wise Men? Did they take an IQ test and pass? Were they true scholars? Or did they merely declare with false bravado that they were wise? For all we know they could have been three imbecile brothers whose parents sarcastically said: “Our three wise men.” When their names were Larry, Moe, and Curly.

How do we absolutely know that Mary and Joseph were turned away at the Inn because it was full? Was the Innkeeper in a foul mood and when he saw a pregnant lady on a donkey just thought to himself: “These are not the clientele I want for my Inn.” Hence turning them away to sleep in the manger.

Also, the old saying: “The stockings were hung by the chimney with care.” How is this possible? Realistically this is a fire hazard. No matter how carefully, and gingerly, you hang your stockings it is a perilous situation. From catching on fire to melted chocolates. Not a good idea…

Then we belt out Christmas Carols with such gusto and assurance. For example: “Oh bring us some Figgy Pudding! We won’t go unless we get some!” First of all, I will pass on the Figgy pudding, and anyone threatening to stay unless I give them some is alarming to me. If a bunch of random strangers appeared at my door dressed in Victorian costumes, demanding to be served Figgy Pudding, I would most DEFINITELY be ringing 911.

Let’s talk about this star of Bethlehem. If the Three Wise Men were as wise as history says, why did they need a star to guide them? Wouldn’t their brilliant minds have a built-in GPS to navigate their journey to Jerusalem? Would they really need a star the size of a full moon to lead them? If they were so clever wouldn’t they know North, South, East, and West?

What about the Elves toiling away in Santa’s workshop. Isn’t this merely glorified child labor? Who decided: “Hey let’s put them in hats and pointy shoes so they can feel even more humiliated! They can still chip away in the workshop without the degrading costumes.

Peace on Earth Goodwill towards men? This needs to change to Peace on Earth and Goodwill to ALL!

I LOVE the idea of reindeer flying but let’s be honest, I bet PETA has something to say about this.

At the end of the day does any of this matter? All that counts is being together with the ones you love, creating memories, and all of the magical tales of Christmas. Bring on the lights, gingerbread, baubles, bows, presents, and tinsel that encompass it. For me, the true meaning of Christmas is seen through a child’s eyes of wonderment and beguilement.

The way the world is nowadays I choose to just for the moment look at Christmas from a child’s point of view. Like in the movie Miracle on 34th Street, “I Believe”.

Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Six: Ma’am and the Grinch…

I am married to the Grinch. This becomes more apparent to me each Christmas. Not only does Confused Husband take on the persona of the Grinch, but physically he seems to morph into him as well. He stands there hands on hips, spindly legs, slight belly overlapping, and grimaces. If his skin was green he would be twinning with the Grinch. This is the look and pose I receive when I ask him to get the Christmas decorations out. There is a clasping of hands and a muttering, “Then he growled, with his Grinch fingers nervously drumming, ‘I must find some way to keep Christmas from coming!‘”

I ask him: “What did you say?” But he has already disappeared in search of the Christmas decorations. I hear boxes tumbling, crashes, and more incoherent muttering. A few minutes later he appears with several boxes. Apparently, the Grinch cannot read as they are marked Halloween. He drops them onto the floor and a neon pumpkin spills out. The Grinch frowns and mumbles as he carries the Halloween boxes away.

Returning with the correct boxes and an even BIGGER scowl on his face, the remaining tufts of hair like duck fuzz on his head gingerly blowing from his exasperated sighs. I attempt to change the atmosphere in the room by putting on some Christmas music.

The Grinch does not like this not one little bit. And then! “Oh, the noise! Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!” “That’s one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!” For some reason, my Grinch has a massive dislike for holiday music. I have heard him babble rude things about Christmas Carols. He doesn’t like “Wishing You a Merry Christmas.” He thinks that The Twelve Days Of Christmas is ABSURD! Many moons ago, we got into a discussion about how RIDICULOUS the lyrics were and there was no such thing as a Partridge in a pear tree, or eight maids a milking. In PowerPoint precision, he debunked all gifts from Day One through Day Twelve. It was a tragic day.

“Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store.” No mine knows it does because of the credit card bills. Which he continuously harps on about in January.

“Welcome Christmas. Bring your cheer, Cheer to all Whos, far and near.” I say to my Grinch.

“Christmas Day will always be Just as long as we have we.”

Just like in the real Grinch, Christmas will come to our home. My Grinch will participate in the merriment and munch on his chocolates from his stocking. And I guarantee that: “He brought everything back, all the food for the feast! And he, he himself, the Grinch carved the roast beast!”

“And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say That the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day!”