The Great Aphrodisiac

“Power is the great aphrodisiac.” Henry Kissinger

I thought about power all day yesterday.

I have just been invited to give a TED-talk in Arizona in 2022, and if you don’t already know, every TEDx venue has a different theme. Subjects like growth, passion and connection all make the rounds. For this particular venue, the theme is power.

Sexual power. Political power. Professional power. Spiritual power. So many different types, and I have about six months to figure out how to apply the theme of power to my story.

I was ruminating on power while sitting at a traffic light yesterday, and I happened to glance in my rearview mirror at the line of vehicles behind me. It was rush hour, as “rush hour” as south Jersey can get, and traffic was pretty constipated. I was in the front of this line of traffic backed up a half mile, and it dawned on me that the fate of every single driver’s day, even their lives, was in my hands. Whether they were on time to work, alive for dinner, or present at their kids’ sporting events was up to me. All I had to do was drive safely and let them live their lives. Not crash, not hold up traffic, just drive forward.

And I felt this sophomoric adrenaline rush, this rush of power, like when I was chosen as line leader in elementary school. I remember that hoity-toity feeling like it was yesterday.

“That’s right, peasants,” I would think as I looked at my tiny minions forming a line behind me. “I’m line leader, and what I say goes. You do not move until I move, you do not eat until I eat, you do not do anything without my say so, understand? How does it feel?”

From my end it was intoxicating. That is, until the next day and someone else was chosen as the line leader. Then I became the peasant, and had to do as I was told. I hated that feeling of being a faceless, nameless amoeba in that primary school pecking order. I didn’t like handing that power over to someone else, especially if I felt like the person wasn’t worthy. A friend as line leader? Hells yeah! Dumb stinky Jacob who sat in the last row and picked his nose?

God no. How could I follow such a person into battle? A person without even the most minimal amount of cognizance concerning his personal grooming? Especially considering we were entering such a daunting situation fraught with peril, that of the elementary school recess yard?

Jacob couldn’t protect me! Jacob couldn’t call the shots in my life! What if I needed leadership, and he was busy picking his nose?

It wasn’t even that I cared about always being a leader. That was never it, and is not how I feel now. Leading is all about voice, presence and pressure. No, for me, it’s not about always leading, but more about rarely following.

This reticence in handing over the power in my life gets worse the older I get. I don’t like handing the power over to just anyone (power in the bedroom is a completely different subject, ya’ll). Life seems like a very silly game to me. Kiss the ass of this one, kneel at the altar of that one. Follow all the rules exactly how they’re laid out and one day, if you’re lucky and you work very very hard, the ones “in power” will throw you some scraps for your trouble.

But this is how the Game of Life is played. Adults who play the Game of Life well know that sometimes relinquishing power can be beneficial, nay essential, to one’s successes.

It takes longer my way, you know, and I’ve gotten in my share of trouble for it. That of living for myself. I’m 55, and I sometimes wonder if I had played by the rules more often, if I would have reached my goals faster.

Perhaps. But it wouldn’t have been as much fun. It’s been a blast. Have a great weekend.

Pony

How you feeling?

I don’t like what I’m hearing. People down in the dumps, feeling helpless, overwhelmed, powerless. I’m not a therapist, but I have a few suggestions.

First, stop feeling like that. If you woke up warm, fed and comfortable, you’re rich. You’re rich. You’re rich. Say it over and over, because it’s true.

Second, stop watching the news, and get off social media. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: it’s the devil. It’s a fear narrative. Read something that uses language that lights you up inside. Whether it’s a horror novel, a celebrity biography or a poetry anthology, let the words flow through you until they resonate.

Third, go somewhere in your house where you can be alone, turn this song up, and dance. Dance in whatever way makes you happiest, maybe even do a little striptease while you listen to it. Better yet, it’s a super sexy song, so strip for someone else, or have some sex while you listen to it. Just be uninhibited, and let yourself go.

Life’s too short to be taken so damn seriously.

Sassy Pants

Remind me how to style work pants? Just look at that stylish woman on my featured image above. How does she do it?

I was actually cold yesterday walking around campus. See, I can only wear open-toed sandals ever since dropping a 45-pound plate on my toe at the gym (yes, I’m going to lose the toenail on my left big toe, hundred percent), so since any pressure on my toenail is excruciating, that leaves wearing any shoes except sandals or sneakers unacceptable.

It was 38 degrees, and I was walking around in a skirt and bare legs. Chilly.

I decided to go home in between classes to change, and as I stood in front of my closet, I realized I couldn’t remember how in the world to style pants. I wear skirts or dresses at work, and tights for the gym. Cozy sweatpants or yoga pants at home, sundresses in summer, tights and boots in winter. But work pants? Slacks? I hate them. My legs are like three inches long, so I look like the bottom half of a Lego when I wear pants.

I tried on a sweater with high-waisted black pants. Lego.

I tucked a white blouse into the same high-waisted pants. Waitress Lego.

I pulled on black crop pants, black suede heeled ankle boots, and a houndstooth blazer. UK Lego.

I tried a peasant blouse with navy blue pants. Momma Lego.

A black turtleneck with gray houndstooth slacks. Beatnik Lego.

A red flannel shirt with boot-cut pants. Woodcutter Lego.

A tasteful sequin sweater with wide-legged trousers. Christmas tree ornament Lego.

I mean, you get the point. I just finally pulled on knee high black leather boots and a black skirt and jacket, my go-to. Pants might just have to be added to my list of “Things You Just Can’t Pull Off Anymore, Bitch, Just Face It,” along with miniskirts, ruffles, skinny jeans, lace and leather, other than on shoes.

But it’s not so bad. It gives me something to think about while I’m spinning that wheel online that asks, “What year were you born?”

Boob Tube

(No, this post is not about bras. Listen, if you have signed up for my newsletter, and have received nothing, I apologize. We’re working on it. There seems to be a glitch with Mailchimp. Thanks for your patience. As soon as I get my email list going, I’ll send out some freebies).

I always seem to be out of the prime-time loop.

When colleagues were going around talking about gabagool and Anthony Soprano, I was like, “Who?”

Then everything was about Walter White, and I was like, “Who?”

Suddenly, Winter was coming, Michael Scott was a dick, and It Was Always Sunny in Philadelphia. There was something or other about squid, and now I’m seeing posts about something called “Succession.”

Not being a binge watcher leaves me bereft of a lot of pithy cultural allusions. If I ever do have the time and the patience to sit and watch television for hours (I can barely sit still for a sixty minute pedicure), here are the shows I would watch:

“Brooklyn Nine-Nine.” Andy Samberg, brilliant in everything he does.

“Yellowstone.” Kevin Costner, my lifelong crush, still gorgeous. And Kelly Reilly, jeez, how can a woman be this beautiful?

“Curb Your Enthusiasm.” Larry David, my comedy guru. I identify so closely with Larry David, it’s unnerving. How long would it take for me to watch eleven seasons?

“South Park.” Makes me laugh until it’s hard to breathe. Mesmerizingly brilliant.

“Billionaire,” and “House of Cards.” Paul Giamatti and Kevin Spacey, and best casts in the world.

“The Undoing.” I wanted so much to watch this mini-series with Hugh Grant and Nicole Kidman, but I couldn’t work it out.

“American Horror Story.” Right up my alley.

“Veep.” Julia Louise, with her perfect comedic timing.

“Sharp Objects.” Intriguing.

No Charge

Last month I bought a pair of sneakers online, and when the shoe box arrived, it held a soft, baby blue shoe bag. I was touched by the gesture, although confused.

What kind of psychopath stores her stinky running sneakers in a cashmere shoe bag? Was this an upper echelon of society I had heretofore not been exposed to? Was this akin to George eating his Snickers with a knife and fork?

I visited a specialty Italian food store, and after I made my purchase, the cashier handed me a thick grocery bag with generous handles.

“Thank you for shopping with us.”

I looked at her, then looked at the bag. I twirled it around, mesmerized by the thick canvas feel of it and their store insignia blazoned on the front. It was the nicest grocery bag I had ever been handed.

I bought a pair of earrings for a small gift swap I will be attending, and the jewelry counter attendant placed them into a luxurious red leather box, and wrapped the box in thick fancy wrapping with a bow on top. I didn’t even ask her to gift wrap it.

“Thank you,” I said nonplussed. She just grinned at me knowingly, like she knew something I didn’t.

Oh, you bet she did.

I bought my sons some gifts at Dick’s Sporting Goods. Nothing outrageous, just some golf stuff, cool clothes, the normal fare. My eyes popped out of my head at the final total.

“Are you sure that’s right?” I asked the cashier. “Did you multiply that by pi?”

The young girl looked at me strangely, then at the total on the register. “No, it’s right.”

“Is that total in złoty?”

Her face was blank. “Huh?”

“Never mind. Did you enter my discount?”

“Yes,” she said. “Sorry. But feel free to grab as many gift boxes as you want when you exit the store.” I followed her gesture towards huge crates piled to the ceiling and filled with every size box imaginable.

I challenged her. “I can have as many as I want?”

“Yes.”

“Can I have 9?”

“Sure.”

“12?”

“Yep.”

“How about 20?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Ma’am, you can have as many boxes as you want.”

Ah, yes. There it was. Stores are famously stingy with their gift boxes during the holidays, so it would seem that this has been the catch all along. Everything is so expensive right now, merchants are throwing these beautiful packages, boxes and bags in for “nothing.” Because they’re overcharging for everything.

I don’t have a problem with them trying to make money, I just want them to know that I know, and that I informed you, and now you know.  

You know?

Sticker Frenzy

Why do I have such a problem controlling myself around stickers?

I’m obsessed with them. I want to own them all. I can’t just buy one or two when I travel, I have to buy a handful in every store I walk in. And every time I see the cutest sticker I have ever seen, there is an even cuter one two feet away.

I have sticker frenzy.

I am right now five minutes away from purchasing every single sticker on the OctoNation website. You KNOW how much I love elephants and octopuses. My fave creatures on the planet.

OctoNation has so many cute products that help spread knowledge and awareness of the fact that octopus are smart, sentient, playful, sweet, loving creatures. I will never achieve total happiness until I dive with one, play with one, and feel those little suckers on my hands and arms.

Secret: That is why I re-applied for my PADI-cert. I am going to dive with an octopus in 2022. More on that.

No, don’t even try it, bitches and bastards. OctoNation is not an affiliate of mine, and I’m not getting paid if you log onto the website. Sheesh, when did you get so jaded? It’s just that I’m sitting here ready to buy about twenty stickers, and I thought I’d share the website with you.

I have nowhere to put these stickers. I don’t decorate my laptop, and my Hydroflask has no more space. But I don’t care. I want them. All.

Enjoy your weekend.

Shush…

The black comedy “Downhill” received mixed reviews, but I found it intriguing.

Watching this movie starring Julia Louise-Dreyfus and Will Ferrell is like spending two hours with a married couple who hate each other. They put on a good act, but the animosity between them is palpable. Suddenly, halfway through dinner, you realize that you’re enjoying yourself. That you can’t look away. Because you are forced to admit that being enmeshed in their misery is entertaining, because their unmitigated loathing of each other makes you feel better about your own relationship.

Human nature.

Rent it, but don’t blame me if you hate it. Despite their comedy chops, Louise-Dreyfus and Ferrell don’t crack any jokes in this film. None. Zero. That’s why it’s a black comedy, silly. When a devoted husband and father runs away from an avalanche instead of running towards his family to protect them, it tends to create, er, tension.

Enough of this, all I wanted to do was post some of my favorite movie ski scenes.

“Downhill.” This sole funny scene from “Downhill” is after Dreyfus spends the day with a hot young ski instructor, and then takes a “break” in the ladies room. Let’s just say that if it were Elaine Benes, she is most certainly not Mistress of Her Domain in this scene.

“Bridget Jones’ Diary.” This is just fun, and reminds me of the first time I skied with my late husband.

“Ski School.” This is one of the infantile kind of movies that appeals to my infantile sense of humor. This movie is all about drinking, sex and skiing, with a little intrigue thrown in for good measure. My friends and I used to take small ski trips in college, and the ski patrols are often like this. Super fun to rent and laugh. Here’s the trailer.

“Better Off Dead.” Before helmets, and when the inexperienced just wore jeans and Members Only jackets. John Cusack at his best.

Shana from “SNL.” Ski lodge skit. Kristen Wiig. Andy Samberg. Perfection. Do yourself a favor and watch to the end.

Shstuff

Someone emailed me and asked me what I “love” about my plumbers. So alrighty then, let’s get to it.

It’s not necessarily my plumbers I love, although I do love them. Their phone never goes to voice mail, and their receptionist calls me warmly by my first name. When I send an email at 2:00 a.m. in a panic about goose feces, by the time I call them at 9:00 a.m. they have already read my email and are ready with an appointment. They don’t mind going in my house if I’m not home. And they laugh with me when I’m dumb.

They make my life easier.

Hear that? Easier.

Listen, I don’t expect my life to be “easy” all the time. Life is often tough, for anyone. But only another widow can possibly understand the gratitude we feel when anyone, especially men who know how to do “stuff,” helps us.

In the movie “It’s Complicated,” divorced Meryl Streep’s character balks when Steve Martin’s character helps her with a small job. He asks her what’s wrong.

“I’m just not used to people helping me,” she answered.

I felt that.

I don’t want to handle stuff. I’m not good with “stuff.” I don’t want to learn about hot water heaters, or moldy ceilings, or brake pads, or leaky faucets, or chipped paint, or new windows. Everything about being a spoiled entitled little girl rebels at the thought of understanding house “stuff.” I just want to walk into my house, turn on a light, and live my life.

But I must learn about “stuff.”

It has been an odyssey. I have learned so many things not just about my house but about myself in these past four years. Just the act of sweeping errant animal waste out of the mechanical room, knowing that the plumbers could walk in unencumbered had me strutting around the house with pride and looking left-and-right for a superhero cape.

Wonder Mom.

There was no cape to be found, but it didn’t diminish the pride I felt about accomplishing such an extremely distasteful task. You know why I did it?

I had no choice. I have no choice. Because with my sons gone, there is no one to help me with it. This is occasionally sad, but mostly good.

I once wrote a magazine article about female solo travel, and I interviewed some of the women I was in Canada with. This was an extremely physically arduous adventure trip, and actually quite competitive. Everyone wanted to ride horses better, spelunk faster, and climb more dexterously than the next gal.

“Why do you solo travel?” I asked my new friends.

“Because there are no men on these trips,” one woman answered. “When I travel with my husband (or sons, or brothers), I find myself looking to them to help me. I default to being helpless. ‘Can’t do this, can’t do that,’ until by the end of the trip I realize I didn’t improve my skills at all. If I travel with women, I have no choice but to do it myself.”

Holla.

People who make my life easier are few and far between. My plumbers are in that exclusive group, as are my handymen, my mechanic, the local electronic guys who installed my sound system, the electricians who fixed my counter lights, my lawyer, the car detailing guys who pick my car up and bring it back, and my interior decorators.

I don’t mind writing the check. Just for God’s sake make my life a little easier. But if you make my life more difficult? In any way at all? That’s easy.

I’ll drop you like a bad habit. Simple as that. No hard feelings, but you know, fuck you. I’ve done my time with “hard.” I’m all about easy now, baby.

Let me conclude with some sexy phrases that if interested, you can use them on me to get me all hot and bothered. Here are my top ten phrases from people who make (or have made) my life easier:

I’ll head over in an hour and take a look.

No worries, Mary, we’ll take care of it.

I’ll do it for you.

Nah, let me do it. I got it.

I can fix that for you.

Let’s set up an appointment for tomorrow.

I see your problem, that’s an easy fix.

Your car is fixed.

Just confirming our appointment today.

And my favorite:

It’s not something for you to worry about it. Leave the worry to me.

Mmmmrawrrrr….