Who's that sickly chick? Oh, wait...

I've recently been blessed with new friends on Facebook... the kind that have never met me, which is generally a good thing for them. The joy of social networking is the chance to learn about the other grasses, greener or otherwise, when the ol' homestead patch gets a little dull. The downside is that the cyber-me is even stranger than the real thing.

I took a little time today to look at the pictures on my page. These are typically there to serve as an overview of that which I hold dear; my family, my furries and the evidence that I do, in fact, leave the house occasionally. Unfortunately, what I found is not necessarily the representation of myself that I'd prefer. Exhibit A:



The last time I saw limbs that stick-like was, well... the last stick I saw. And the fact that this is one of those rare moments when my cane snuck into the shot makes it even worse. (see post several links down for the rant on canes). And then there's this beauty that we shall dub, per acceptable sequential order, Exhibit B:



I look like a cancer patient, which should be offensive to cancer patients everywhere. The eyes are so sunken, they're planning an escape via the back of my head. Those Cherokee cheekbones are sharp enough to slice bread but (from an outside's view) I appear to never eat such things.

Granted, I've always been small. I once reached a staggering 112 pounds but that's been quite a few years (freshman ten and all that). But I can't account for the rest of the issues. In a recent post, I extolled the perils of growing old and I now see the proof that I wasn't just typing Dixie that day. Man, I need an intervention!

This is the image that people who 'friend' me will see; a skinny, gaunt and apparently ill chick in desperate need of a meal and potent medication. But seriously folks, it's not so bad in person... I think?

Surpassing the Numeric Value

If I were an inventor, I'd spend gazillions of the government's money to build a sci-fi machine. Revolutionizing the global landscape, my gadget (which I'd naturally name after myself), would perform the most significant task ever crafted for something less than God. This creation would be assigned the world-saving job of pinpointing the exact moment when I got old.

Seriously.

It's well known among the people who know me (which includes those who do) that I have more gray hair than should be planted upon the head of anyone so young. Should someone measure out my hair, currently of an appalling fishing-wire texture, with my mother's not-entirely-brown variety, mine would outweigh hers. This seems wrong. And just a bit like punishment.

But it's not just the follicle matter. Remember when our teen-aged purchases always included Stridex, Clearasil and other pimply dohingies? Residing now in my shower stall is a tube of face cleanser marked 'tone and renew.' This product and others like it promise to revive the wicked witch skin and reclaim the once-smooth surface from the angry crows scratching their lines around my eyes.

It seems I skipped a step somewhere. If you were like me (and I pray to holy Jesus you weren't) you couldn't wait for the end of the pubescent pestilence known as zits. We can accept that one day there will be wrinkles and such - in that distant future where we all eat rice pudding in the nursing home - but there's supposed to be a space in between where we all wander the earth with the airbrushed look of fresh-baked supermodels. Apparently, I leapt over that blessing in a single bound. Honestly, I'm TONING AND RENEWING people!!!!

I've always looked younger than my years. A few years ago I got stopped by a cop near my house. He turned one of those sun-in-a-can spotlights on me and then laughed. Laughed! Apparently he thought I was a twelve year old on a joy ride (my family will tell you that Mr Law Enforcer added 'boy' to his description but I've blocked that part out). But now, with the old hag hair color and early eye lines, I fear my looks are surpassing my numeric value. Gettin' old, friends.

But, as daddy would say, at least I'm still gettin'.

In which dating turns (really) ugly...

VH1 should be renamed. Remember when it showed (oh, what do you call those brightly colored, three minute thingies?) videos? Unfortunately, the channel has cordoned off a scant one hour of programing specifically related to those thingies and the rest has become a haven for those who just can't get enough CELEBRITY DATING SHOWS!!!!

Are you one of them? They have help for such folly... I think it's called A LIFE!

Seriously, thirty beautiful women - lacking actual careers and, dare I surmise, marketable job skills - strap on their hair extensions and fight over the species to your left. Seriously, would you date him? And when I say fight, I mean erupt in b***h slapping, hair-pulling, 'your momma' insults and the ever popular backstabbing. Really, how do these chicks manage to walk upright in stilettos with a machete so deeply lodged in their spines? Many of these long-legged samples spackle on enough make up to lend a conservative visage to drag queens and we're supposed to root for them based on the displayed talent of cattiness. (anyone remember New York?)

After one season of clawing past whiners to win the gold-toothed heart of Flav, a new batch was summoned from a porn casting couch to battle for the prize to your right. Apparently, Bret's time with Poison didn't introduce him to his eternal angel among the groupies. Have you noticed that despite multiple seasons of both Emmy-worthy shows, neither fella has found true love? Why? Because everlasting devotion isn't grown under the unflattering lights of reality TV. You've got a better chance of finding your soulmate stocking the nut aisle at the local Whole Foods. Naked.

I remember dating (through the haze of a decade's sabbatical) but I don't recall ever having to lower my shame tolerance and compete for men who are clearly in it to rekindle their dwindling celebrity. The women must pole dance, take lie detector tests to prove their love (having been nurtured for two days) is true. Let's face it, the guys aren't looking for forever... they, like their suitors, are on a quest for fifteen minutes and since the viewing public digs a catfight, they'll get it.

Stop watching, people! It only perpetuates the mind-numbing cycle. After all, the aforementioned New York got her own show and now we've got season one of Ray J, who must be a celebrity of impressive caliber since I've never heard of him (though at least he doesn't hurt my retinas). You have to wonder what sort of person needs to go to such lengths to find a date? Surely even Match.com would accept an account from B-listers.

And I have to wonder why I, who protest the existence of such fare, know so much about them?

Trippin' ain't just for hippies...

Some mornings, it's tough to wake up.
Some mornings, it's tougher afterward.

Here's a rundown of a typical post-snooze saga as played by myself (in the unfortunate lead) and my supporting cast (strewn about the stage).

Exit bed - trip over snoring 70 pound ZaedahDog for whom getting up is like being drafted.
Head to closet - cut off by Zazu, who only wants affection when I have other plans for my hands.
Leave room - kick 'black cat in the dark' Zorro who, in general, sees this as quality cuddling.
Shower time - fall over bubble lovin' Zimba who insists on drinking out of every running faucet.
Breakfast - sloppily dodge as Reuben climbs up leg in an effort to secure love regardless of pain to human.
Walk through living room - stumble around Bugg and Stitch, who believe we all paid good money to see them... you know... boink.
Check water bowls - Collide with massive Willow, a German shepherd who is convinced she's the size of a newborn lightning bug.
Feed the maniacs - perform webble wobble dance as the herd comes running like divas at a Gucci giveaway.
Search for seating - only to find it's all be taken...

The unmentioned animals (oh yes, there are more) are patient stagehands waiting until the dust settles from the multiple collisions before making their daily debut. Needless to say, I am a canvas of bumps, bruises and occasional contusions, painted fresh everyday by artists plotting their masterpiece of carnage!

New New Year's tradition...

You knows the smoldering ash of age has snuck into your bloodstream when Dick Clark stays up later than you do.

For the last few years, I've sworn off watching the once terribly exciting Times Square ball drop due to encroaching factors beyond my control. Like excessive yawning. And the fact that, really, it's not that exciting. I've never actually gone anywhere on New Year's Eve, an issue born of my staunch 'no drinking' lifestyle and the shameful truth that I've never been a party chick. It ain't me, folks.

It's taken me three decades to buck the trend.

I did, in fact, go out!

My good buddy Dennis and I visited the ancient Keswick Theater outside Philly, an establishment that opened in the rip-roaring year of 1928, when even Dick Clark wasn't alive (debunking the myth that the man's first NYE countdown was done before Moses stopped to ask for directions). According to my butt, the seats and accompanying padding (or lack thereof) are original to the building. We were crammed in with 800 of our closest neighbors to watch a live performance.

I'd like to pause and thank Dennis for introducing me to Mystery Science Theater. You know, that late lamented gem that showed the worst that cinema has to offer while the silhouettes of a host and two robots skewer the plot, characters, dialogue, settings, props and cliches with rapid-fire jokes. They makes Ed Wood films watchable in a way only Prozac and Jack Daniels could before.

Last night, we spent five glorious hours absorbing three stellar films (War of the Insects, Samson and the 7 Miracles and Legacy of Blood) presented live with original riffers standing live on the stage before us. Yes, Locke... we got to suck in the same air as Joel, Crow, TV's Franks, the original Servo and Pearl. While sitting on torture devices (did I mention they need to remodel the seating?)

They paused for champagne (no thanks) before midnight and we counted down, afterward embracing friends, strangers and that guy dressed like Dr Forrester (Okay, maybe we didn't). It beat gazing upon a ball who's only true claim to fame is merely reflecting the principles of gravity or, as has been my custom of late, staring at the backs of my eyelids. The evening was delightful, a first in what I hope will be many more new years starting interestingly. I'm only sad we weren't able to meet the actors after the show. But in their honor, I leave you with the image Dennis and I have come to appreciate as a staple of sanity in a crazy, mixed up world...