Things I Don’t Like

Technically,   ex-boyfriends would take the  top five….count’em….top five spots,  but I want to talk specifically about the sights, sounds, smells, and physical sensations  we have as humans that illicit a very unpleasant visceral response   Though some things people do (( or don’t do) will undoubtedly make the list as well.

Some, I’ve had since chilfdood, others I’ve just recently discovered I had.

  1.  I hate the feeling of having my nails filed.    i Ivan  file them myself with a mild case of repulsion.     But a file in the hand of soneome else’s on my nails and I’m reaching for  a Xanax.
  2. I hate lying on a corduroy pillow and hearing  movement on the other side..   It could be something  as innocent as a slight move as mybarm underneath the pillow but when the sound is scratching, I go crazy.    Hearing this  will elicit screams of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre variety.
  3. People who chew and talk with their mouths full of food.
  4. People who who cut their meat  with their with their fist fully wrapped around the knife handle and held straight up..     So interesting.   I’d love to meet the wombats who raised the people.
  5.  Using a toothpick after eating a meal, then making this insipid sucking sound made when when the toothpick finally dislodged pay dirt.
  6. Dirty fingernails.    Males, females  infants, I’m not picky.
  7.  Lines of makeup foundation along the jaw line.   Blend, people…..blend!!
  8. Poor grammar…..”He ain’t got no money…”lHe done took it with him”.      “They’s coming for vittel’s at 8′
  9. Eyebrows plucked to 1/16 of an inch.      What’s that all about?
  10. People who don’t say please or thank for even the smallest kindnesses
  11. Fanny packs.  Lots of people don’t like these things,  handy and convenient as they might be.   Wearing one could be fatal.
  12. A dead tooth.   The gray ones.    You can’t help but stare at it.    If money is an issue, I’d glue a big white Chicklet to the offending tooth if I fad to.
  13. Visible earwax in an ear.
  14. Sneezes that stink.   Someone people don’t cover their faces when sneezing and your forced to smell their pulmonary innards.  Not pleasant.
  15. Clumps of irregular holes….such as in a lotus pod.     Tt actually has a name called Trypophobia.   It actually prompts a visceral response.   Here’s an example if I can find the strength to look one up and post it.


Now, I far from perfect and Ive got more flaws than I can count.  I just felt like sharing some things  that bother me, get me…ot freak me out.

I know someone who breaks  into tears at the  mere picture of a clown.   One good friend recently told me she has a phoba of the pointed ends of fingernail scissors.  Regular sized scissors  are no problem, just fingernail scissors.   She  couldn’t explain it.   Very people can.

I would imagine few could offer any explanations because most phobias are considered to be completely irrational..   Some in the psychiatric community have mixed feelings about their legitimacy, but Ive read read recently  that more and more shrinks aren’t poo-pooing phobias it as they once did.    A fear has to begin somewhere, even the most illogical, irrational ones.

So,if you would, please feel to share some of your phobias,,netbooks or betanoirs.     I’m fascinated by the odd little things that cause so much mental and physical discomfort.































An Editorial

I have suddenly grown tired of the term millennial. It’s as overused as the Kardashian’s love of the word “like”. I loathed  the terms Generations X and Y and never liked Baby Boomer

imageI was born in 1959, which places me at the end of boomerdom. I had no war to protest, burnt bras had stopped smoldering. Disco reared its ugly head.  There.was inflation but I wasn’t a real consumer in my teens.  You could be have been referencing putting air in a volleyball, for all I knew.    If it didn’t affect my pubescent world.  Then in 1977, I took a nap and when I woke up, it was 2016.

And I woke up to thevrealization that I had become irrelevant.

The business world of goods and services must appease the millennials. If you’re 32 and older, you don’t matter, because by that time you know you like Coors and Oreos and Ford Sedans. You’ve lived long enough to establish your tastes, likes, dislikes and brand loyaltIes. Doesn’t matter that a millennial is just starting out and broke. Consequently,it doesn’t matter if you’re 60 and worth two million.. The millennials are determining what they like and don’t like…..from gum to politics.   They try different things on their way to becoming part of ye olde establishment.

Advertisers, media buyers, etc, love this.  They focus almost myopically on this consumer sojourn of millennials.   But in ten years, it’ll be a whole new crop of young consumers who’ll have a moniker….I’m hoping it’ll be something as simple as consumers.

Youth.   I remember it well.   I was 20 once myself, with a killer metabolism—like a blast furnace, I tell ya.  I could take a One A Day vitamin with iron and fart nails 20 minutes later. But time marches on. And it starts marching faster every day.

So enjoy it all you, young,cool, hipsters: Revel in your taught skin and lovely full manes of hair, because I have news for you—- hot flashes, arthritis, sagging, never ending foreheads and erectile dysfunction are in your future, along with sweating in places you never knew had sweat glands. Don’t even get me started on the smells!! But yes, it’s true…it all lies in wait.    Aging isn’t  for the weak.  And you’ll be amazed at what no longer matters and suddenly, what does.

Trust me, its tough being hip when yours is made of titanium

Read This, Kids


Happy birthday, America!!

My goodness, the struggles you’ve endured. Centuries ago, settlers came from Englamd (and other places) came here seeking religious freedom. Instead, they found famine and illness and hostile indigenous people. Death was often the end result. Yet, they still came seeking a better life. Harsh winters tried to discourage them, new illnesses for which there were no cures. Skirmishes with the natives couldn’t bridle their enthusiasm, to leave bad behind and seek out something new, and hopefully better. And then after years, we finally got it right, somehow they all learned to live together. We shared with each other our knowledge of agriculture, weaponry from an industrialized mother country and other of doing things. We taught each other. But Mother England wasn’t happy. She didnt want to let go of her subjects. They wanted independence, England wanted their taxes, with no one to represent them in Parliament. Unfair, raw deal!!, thought our founding fathers.

So, His majesty sent over fabulously dressed redcoats armed to the teeth. Impressive looking indeed, but they didn’t know the lay of the land. And the American troops, little scrappy bastards soundly defeated the British Army. Then, a whole bunch of white guys met in what had to be one damned hot hall Philadelphia to pen The Declaration of Independence. We severed ties with Britania and the United States of America was born

Independence. Our own perfectly imperfect Union.

That said, are we a perfect country? Oh hell no. Never have been, never will be. We’ve got a lot scars and reasons to cringe and blush. Antebellum slavery. the Civil War, The indentured servitude of Irish and Italian immigrants up north. Yankees, your hands are not so clean either. The way native Americans have been treated. Treaty after treaty broken. The KKK. The Black Panthers. Hate groups hell bent on keeping others groups down! by violent means, not by acting exemplary. Hate is ignorance.
But in spite of her faults, the poverty, the murder rate, the prejudice, certain inequities, the failure in certain situations regarding education, the misogyny and that damned glass ceiling for women. All downers, right? But the hard core truth is, I just wrote what I wrote freely and as a result, I don’t fear some armed hoodlums grabbing me off the street and shoving me into a delapidated VW van built during the Nixon administration and I’ll never be heard from again.

I can drive a car, I can choose to have a baby or not. I can marry or not. I can get a job, adopt a child, own my home, vote for the candidate of my choice though this election year gives us horrible options. I can dress how I choose and I can live as choose as long as I adhere to the laws of this land. And that means worshipping as I see fit— or not worshipping at all. We’re free to be straight, gay, bi, transgendered, fat, thin, shy, gregarious, outrageous, sedate. Socialists, Democrats ,Log Cabin Republicans, Independents. Jewish, Mormons,  B’ahi….anything we want.

We come from everywhere and we bring our lifestyles with us but once here, we become Americnas. Preface it if you must by revelling in your Lithuanian heritage, but treasure your status as American.

So, please, pray for your country….my country on this, her 240th birthday. Yeah, she’s been through hell, and yes, she’s done her share of hell raising, but she is a wonderful place. In spite of it all, she IS a truly wonderful place.

And listen to this week’s Supernatural Saturday Night from 8-10pm (CST) on and We’ll feature the absolutely amazing , mind boggling Carrie Carter, an angel expert and Psychic Extraordinaire.

Now, you just wait a minute and don’t hold judgment: Advertising and opportunistic free enterprise are all part of the American Dream. Somewhere, I just made a founding father very pleased.

Happy Fourth of July.

Your friends at Supernatural Saturday Night.


I’ve written about him before over the years.   I won’t apologize.     Few people think I’m the romantic that I am.    I don’t spread rose petals on the bed, mood music is fine, but little else.   If such a condition exists, I’m an emotional romantic.    Over the years, I have loved with great gusto.     I’ve been hurt….damaged at times…..and as one might imagine, that’s altered the way I love.

I take sone responsibility for this.   I’ve made some horrendous choices.    I have a well-used used saying, that don’t  I don’t regret WHAT I’ve done, just WHO I’ve done.

But Ive known love in my life    Real love.    Once.     Just once.  And if anyone even attempts to tell that what I felt from Monday night, August 30, 1971  to Tuesday, Septenber 4, 1973 was just puppy love ( Is that term even used anymore?), I tell them they’re crazy.   A couple of shrinks have gotten an earful on this subject, too.

We were kids then,  but now as a 57 year old woman I still know what I knew then.

You know, Love can be wonderful, capricious, nefarious, beautiful, painful.      The lack of it, which often times  is Often eartache and its physical.   It’s an actual pain .    It is with me anyway.    It’s nothing that has killed me though I incompletely get how one can die from a broken heart.

i battle and have battled with insomnia for years.   One night back in college while spending the night with my boyfriend, I decided to watch TV in the living room.


And just as that discernible, dramatic 80’s network music finished —the one used by   waaaaaay to many gymnasts in their floor routines,  the feature movie at three AM was “Somewhere In Time”.   I’m too tired right now to go into detail.    But at the time I was 21 and had in the early stages of figuring out who I was and whar my place  in the world was.    Still pondering, but I digress.     Fair warning— This is a spoiler alert, but Christopher Reeve was able to travel back in time to meet a woman, whose photo was in the hotel’s hall of honor.    Well, she gives Jim a pocket watch first, which starts this whole process of tying to find her.   He enters theHall of Honor and recognized het photo and immediately fell in love—once again.      He manages to go back to 1910, the year they met, but after some post coital falderal,  he finds a modern penny in his pocket and disappears in front of her, then he wakes up in the same room he exited this realm a week earlier.

Try as he might, he can’t go back in time again.   So he decides to be with her in death, He starves himself and finally dies and waiting for him on a white cloudy soundstage somewhere in Hollywood, she’s there to greet  him, looking young and gorgeous as he remembered her.    She too  continued to love him all her life.  Even in death.

Now mind you, all this sadness is exacerbated by a gorgeous , but heart wrenching Paganini tune underscoring all the most poignant scenes.

Well, I’m crying like a baby and it’s one of those ugly, loud cries that’s more like my eyes are leaking streams. This wakes up the boyfriend. He runs in to see what’s happened and through my sobs, I tried to explain the movie and the ultimate romantic sacrifice that was made.      He said something in Spanish then went back to bed.  I remained on the sofa, trying to gain my composure.

i saw the movie again many years later.     It’s still a 3:00 am featured movie.    And thought it was incredibly hokey.    I’m not jaded, I just have a better understanding of how I love.

Back to the Junior High boyfriend.   I was head over hills in love.     I’ve yet to love like that again.    Hand to God..    I know, first loves are always unforgettable and  for a while there, I was trying to convince myself that I was idealizing the relationship, because it also coincided with a uniquely happy time in my life.   But I’m rethinking that.

This was love.  And in a weird way, it still is.    He broke up with me without an explanation.    On the phone mind you, and he never really  never spoke to me again.    I never got over that.     He was like a chimera twin grieving out of my heart.   Everywhere I went, he went.   He was subconsciously the third person in most  of my relationships.     I survived and loved again, but it was never the same.

It hurt, but he was right to break up, regardless of the ridiculous reason.    He was a year older and only wanted to leave his small South Texas town and get to work   I wanted to go to college then get Walter Cronkite’s job.     We were different people.  Raised differently, grew up differently, but there was always that pesky emotion that kept us connected no matter how far apart.

He got married, had kids……he even has grandkids, from what I hear.

i never married.   Not his fault, my bohemian lifestyle as a journalist keot me moving.  It was feasible….plus Ive yet to meet the right guy.


We spoke for the first time in 2010 and it was a gift from the cosmos.     We never saw each other, I didn’t want to impose on  his life, anymore than phone conversations.

But We spoke a couple of times and he finally explained why he broke up with me.   I was gobsmacked by his answer, it was silly and he admitted that it was and the more he offered,, I could feel his memory’s hold on me exit my body.   Then a sweet nostalgia took its place.      He told me the words that every woman wants to hear.   He said he too had thought about me over the years, had kept up with my career and told  me that while he was happy and life was good but he never stopped loving me and would always love me.  We admitted that despite everything that had happened in the world, in his  world, in my world— despite the differences, we were the loves of each other’s lives.   I understand now more than ever that those words were a gift. I thanked him.    But At the time, I dont think he understood the relevance.

A friend saw him a few years ago, she told him that his conversations had liberated me and I started seeing someone in the years since that first conversation .   He cried.   I’ll admit, I did too when she told me that,  I’m not sure why either of us did.   Closure?   Regret?


Lastly, I’ve been doing more driving lately and in recent days Sirius has been killing me with music that was popular during the two years we were together.    Just today, three songs played in a row and on sat stations that normally wouldn’t play these tunes.    And all week long I’ve hearing songs and he’s been in my thoughts.     I’m not quite sure what if anything this means, but these songs now well ovev40 years old sound the same, but the feel just a little bit sweeter.

The TV haracter, Frasier insists in his psychiatric myopia that there no such things as coincidences.    I’m not a psychiatrist, but I’m a believer in signs.

I don’t know why I’m hearing thesecsingscplated so often (even in stores) and they can stop me in their tracks.     I don’t know if it they represent a message, a harbinger of things to come or what

Then again, it could mean that yes, I’m an even bigger romantic than I care to admit.


I don’t think about him every day.   Years have gone by when he hasnt  entered the grey matter, especially  after we spoke in 2010,

I truly hope he’s happy, and has a joyous good life and I hope his wife adores him as I did and more.   I hope she too is a romantic.   But more than I could ever be.   I wouldn’t take off points for her occasional use of rose petals.




















a broken heart.







Sexism In Politics

Q: What did one saggy boob say to the other saggy boob?
A: “We better get some support before someone thinks we’re nuts!”

An old joke right?   Still kinda snicker worthy  and absurd, yes—-but it’s based on semblence  of truth, thank you, gravity.     You can make a saggy srotum joke in which gravity also affects.

As a woman  who’s lived  in and around the comedy work place for three  decades, the above joke is just a joke.

But there will be people who’ll use this joke to further their cause, one way or another.

Sexism exists, but it can’t be used in politics with any real legitimacy.       Why?    Because it makes it too easy to cry foul.     A woman can govern…. A man can raise children .     Haven’t we risen above that?      Any other time, funny comments made about gender  in any capacity would just be a joke, a bit tasteless perhaps, but still a joke nonetheless.    And probably funny.

Take for instance, Bernie Sanders.      Do you think Hillary refers to him in private as  a kind, older gentlemen?       No.   He’s like a political Raspitin in that his campaign won’t die.       I wonder how she refers to him in private?

Same with Trump.      Like the axiom, does a tree falling in the the forest make  sound if there’s no one to hear it?      Does sexism if only exist if said in private?   Or kept in a thought unspoken?

As I see it, now  is not the time for Hillary to brag about the first viable female presidential candidate one minute, then shout sexism if Trump says something she can construe as being sexist.   Trump, whether she’ll admit it or not, has changed politics.       For the good?    For the better?     I don’t know, but he’s  certainly made it more entertaining.   And I don’t think campaigning will ever be the same and Ol’ Hill has to get hip to that.    And when the two debate and they will,  if Donald makes a comment about her thunderous cankles, she has to strike right back sbout his daffodil thin hair, his baby aspirin orange skin….or the ridiculous  kabuki white make up a he uses to highlight his eyes.    This isn’t the time taking any kind of moral  high ground.   This is the time for good old, old school, schoolyard name calling.    We’re over the suave, gallant William F. Buckley approach, we want Triumph, The Insult Comic dog- type antics.

Childish?   Oh hell yeah, but Trump’s approach has  gotten more people talking and thinking about politics than ever before.

“Donald,  you’re a wholly owned prick.”

“Hillary. you ignorant slut.”

We want our politicians who represents us, to be like us, to think,walk and talk like us.  Even if it’s just for show.

and the presidential acting award goes too……

And what does it matter how nasty it gets?    Or even how polite and honorable it might get?.   Look, here’s the truth—Politicians are like Radio and TV General Managers and five of my last boyfriends, if their mouths are moving, they’re lying.













The World Isn’t A Ghetto

But it can at times, seem like massive section 8 housing.

My mother moved into a lovely brand new assisted living mid-rise apartment two weeks ago.    It was a hellish experience.   The move confused my 85-year-old mother even more so..    She was both prepared  and completely unprepared  at the same time.     It was sad to move her.  Her home was five houses down from mine .   Her old home  is now owned by a family with an 18 year old son who drives one of those huge wheeled trucks  with glass packs, headers and a carbon footprint of 19.5.  The gated enclave in which I lived is chocked full of oldsters.    I was the youngest until the guy from Anerican Graffitti moved in.       And they thought I was a hippie.

As for the move , it reminded me of my parents taking me to college,  everything was different, there were already cliques.   I felt very small and alone.    I think my mother did too.      I mean, imagine it—-you’re standing there in a new environment that while elegant was still scary.   New things for fo an old person is tough.  Changes are gard.  , but she’s meeting new people -and slowly acclimating.     Still, I worry about her.

That’s in part wy I’ve started taking yoga.  Twice a week now starting this week. I don’t love it, though I adore my yogi who’s an absolute doll.      But As iI’ve I’ve been  very stressed lately with family issues, the very distinct possibility of going back on the air with a sshow that’ll  have a global audience.  There was my niece’s  lovely wedding which I officiated.  There’s my mother’ move, my father’s health and an impending move out of state for him    The stock market look like a roller coaster, politics are embarrassing, I thought, “Yoga?   Why not?”

It’s helping my very injured body, but it’s not quite affecting my mind in the ways so many  talk about.       I have a rigidity that concerns me.   It’s the lack of tranquility and peace of mind.   I have it during sessions but the minute I leave, whoop there it is.

I hear about all this groovy  Zen stuff.    I want zen.     Does he take checks?  I’m trying meditation, but quieting my mind seems impossible.  Everything in it sounds like Alvin and the chipmunks and they’re very agitated and fighting with Cindy Lauper and Fran Drescher  for  some reason.     And what’s  worse, their handler, Dave is no where to be found to deal with the nonsense.

Yakety  yak and screeching and banshee-like wailing.   No rest for the weary.

I want to be more relaxed, mindful, selfless, kinder, I want to move at a slower pace, smell flowers   and all that shit, but it’s gonna take some  doing.    I’m tightly wound on my best days.

In closing, I’m trying to convince Pfizer to make a Xanax the width of a Frisbee and as thick as a dictionary that sits in a stand.       I want it placed by the water cooler at work or your favorite chair at home or by your bed.    So, whenever the world tries your last nerve, just go have a couple licks or  chisel off enough to suck on like a Lifesaver or just deep throat the damn thing and swallow as much as you can.

Ah…..just thought of this kind of access calms me down somewhat.

Thet call me mellow yellow…..quite rightly.

Later anxiety.











i hate this bitch.

If personified, I would’think she would look a lot like Lainie Kazan.     No offense to the singer/actress, that’s just who I imagine the person who keeps Mr. Sandman away from asminisistriting those wondrous slumber crystals in my eyes, would look like.   She slaps his hands,  head buts him, kicks him  in the shins…maybe even the figs.     Insomnia is an extremely talented ball buster.   Morpheus fears her and Im the victim

I haven’t really slept normally in my life.  I worked odd hours for 30 years.  2:00 am was breakfast, lunch was five hours later..    Hapy Hour was anytime, every time….all the time.

Ive been out of the business for almost four years now and still, can’t sleep normally—-not without big Pharma.     I’m thankful for 24 hour TV, restaurants, and grocery stores,  but I rarely take advantage of any of those things.     I’m 57.     I’ll travel the world alone, but walking into a darkened,lonely grocery store parking lot at 3:00 AM scares me.        Not that any perp would want to kidnap a cranky,  middle aged mesomorph.      Still, you can never be too careful.

And while we’re on the subject, I turn 57 tomorrow….Friday…..April  22nd.      Birthday wishes are welcomed and maybe even words of encouragement.

Here’s why—i didn’t have a pleasant menopause.  Ma Nature was vindictive.     I retained  water like a reservoir, ate anything  that not coated in lead and in combination with some pills I’m taking at the time that made me crave carbohydrates like a lab rat, So blew up.     My weight has since risen and fallen, depending on just bad a break up was (and they always were), but something happened the other day that made me realize time to get in shape is now.

I was at the grocery store  the other day and the parking lot was crowded and I had to park further back than normal.   I started walking toward the front door and got this feeling that someone was walking close behind me.  As, in, invading  my personal space.   I live in a small bedroom city of San Antonio (the very definition of what flight out of SA) and while,the crime rate is very low, th city isn’t without its minor criminal element.

So, I started walking faster… follower started walking faster.    I’d move to the right–he would too.   I was starting to panic.  I had more than a $100 in grocery money in a nice purse and cringed at the thought of  losing both.   And I font know martial arts or have any self defense skills—-other than being able to vomitbat will.

So, I decided to grow an extra pair of ovaries and stop to see who this was and what he wanted.     So, I turned around and saw no one.      Not a sole was in 30 feet of me.

Turns out  the big dangerous, menacing criminal was just my butt.     It was disconcerting to say the least, that my ass is the size of a would be purse snatching-rapist-kidnapper.

The diet begins today.      Yoga classes, walking and aqua aerobics, eating healthy—the works.

But that’s all for now,   I’ve been up for 28 hours now and getting a little loopy.   I just  walked by a mirror and saw OJ and Charlie  Manson in hot pursuit.

Lee Hatvey Oswald was in my fridge.











it’s  not without