Does She or Doesn't She? There is NO Question!

When I started this blog a few years back, it was because I lived in a small town in the midwest.  Ordinary, everyday people made unordinary things happen and most often, they were pretty funny.  Thus; My Life in a Nutshell.

Well, since then, I have moved. . . bugged out of the midwestern small town and headed west to the desert of California.  It's taken some time but we are finally finding the rythmn here and in that; new material.  It's not the same comfy little nutshell, in fact, it's a whole other kind of nut out here.

Moondoggy retired in September 2013, a planned for, anticipated event that we anxiously awaited and we moved to an "Active Adult" community in the land of sun and movie stars. We call it the "Old Folks Home" (thank you, Carol for that moniker!). It is about the same size as the town we moved from so the nuances aren't much different.  The same rules for living apply: Don't speak - and I do mean literally "speak", disparagingly about someone because that person might be in a club, in a class or Bridge partners with the person with whom you speak.  Pass judgment on others but keep your mouth shut - unless it's just too obvious not to comment on, which, apparently, Moondoggy does.  Constantly. Retirement, has given him way too much time on his hands (I say I married him for better or worse, but not 24/7 and have lobbied for him to find a part-time job - if nothing else so I can have my solitary writing time back) and his judgement filter has been shut off (of course, I hear that happens when you get old.) Case in point?  Plastic surgery.

Don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to cosmetic surgery as a tool for eternal youth unless said surgeries are obvious and, well, bad.  Bee stung lips, of which I have never been a fan, can quickly look like the red waxy lips from our youth that we got at halloween. . . only not that good prompting Moondoggy to comment out of the side of his mouth into my ear, "Geez, Botox much?" . . . I think he meant Restylane. Eyes lifted halfway up the forehead, eyebrows in a constant state of shock and, tight, high cheeks bones that betray a crepey neck waddle are plentiful fodder for discussion and here at the old folks home - heck even just in the valley in general, we've seen our share. Someone needs to tell these people, and by the way, I'm not just talking women here (see Kenny Rogers), that it's not a good look.  In fact, I propose cosmetic surgeons employee a impartial third party to assess whether potential patients should be getting some of the procedures they desire and I have the perfect person for the job, too.  That aside, don't you think if some stranger stood in front of you and told you the truth about how you look or how the surgery would make you look, many people might opt out?  So to the last whose I age I know to be 83 but has a face pulled so high that I am tempted to peek under her hair to see the scars. . .would you like to speak to my husband?

The Policeman is our Friend. . .Part Two

It takes a little over a year for someone who moves to a new state to be plotted back on the grid.  It comes in the form of jury duty and Moondoggy is definitely back on the radar.  Living where we do, with a high density of retirees, this area is ripe for the picking.

Jury duty here is a week long obligation. . .or one trial, whichever is more painful.   Moondoggy received his notice and was scheduled to call in on a Sunday evening to see if he needed to appear at the courthouse the next day or remain on call the whole week and stay within an hour of the courthouse. The first call was a reprieve and an admonishment to call again the next evening.  This continued all week until Thursday when the recording directed him to call in again Friday morning by 10:30.  Waiting around, he made the call at the appointed time and was then directed to appear immediately.  Begrudgingly, he showed up within the hour and was then directed to wait an hour and half until the lawyers and judge returned from lunch. Upon their return, the judge gave an overview of the trial, a DUI case and named the defendant as well as the arresting officers.  And that's when Moondoggy's ears perked.  The arresting officer's name rang a bell. . .and from what he could see, the guy looked vaguely familiar.  It was him, the motorcycle cop who had brazenly pulled Moondoggy over, on his bicycle several months ago and issued the $300 ticket.  The incident had been festering in Moondoggy's craw for months - the giver of the "chicken shit" ticket now a reviled legend. It was so bad that all I had to do was make a joke about stop signs and I could raise Moondoggy's hackles beginning a tirade that could last for hours. And there he was, in the same courtroom with the enemy. The enemy needed him.

By about 1:30, the beginning of jury selection began, seating all but 2 jurors by 3:00.  Moondoggy thought he was in the clear until they dismissed the rest of the group and decided to pick the last 2 jurors from the remaining group. . . of which Moondoggy was one.  Then, it was time for a small break.  By now, he is seething.

At 3:45,  they only need one more juror and they really want to get this jury empaneled and go home for the weekend. Moondoggy is called for questioning.  Normally, he is the first one to believe that someone who drives drunk should be prosecuted - a prosecuting attorney's dream. In most cases, that might be the reason he would have difficultly being impartial.  But when the judge asked him, "Is there any reason you might have difficulty being impartial," the weight of the stress of a week of being on jury call, the now four and half hours spent waiting for them to get this jury set on Friday afternoon (which meant that he would be obligated into the next week) and the trifecta of the resurging anger over the bike ticket inspired his response. "Yes, in fact, there is, your Honor.  I believe the arresting officer - Officer M- there, is the same officer who pulled me over and wrote me a ticket. . . while riding my bike."  The judge, who had been shuffling papers, looked up and suppressed a smile."Your bike?"

"Yes, my bike.  He said I blew a stop sign in a residential area." The titters and giggles started in earnest, first with the empaneled jury and then moved on to the attorneys and the judge.  "It wasn't a pleasant experience," Moondoggy continued, "$300 worth of unpleasant, actually."

The judge pulled it together and asked, "And you would have difficulty remaining impartial?"

"Yes, I believe I would."

It took about 3 seconds for the judge to dismiss him with the blessing of both attorneys who were still cracking up.  Moondoggy exited the courtroom but not without stopping for an extra long gaze at the cop who was now the butt of a courtroom joke.  Moondoggy just smiled. Karma comes full circle.  Now we just have to wait wait for karma to deal with the cyclists. 

When Halloween Goes Global

My sister called the other day to share her latest assessment of life, as we do with each other from time to, when she stumbled upon a subject so glorious I just could not let it go. And because it would be poor form to not give credit to the genius who conceived this gem, I have to give a shout out to my sister’s highly revered

hairdresser – Tammy.

There was this costume party coming up and a group of women were discussing what to wear when Tammy suggested they all dress as GIRL SCOUTS! Not just any girl scout mind you, but as COUGAR GIRL SCOUTS! They would all wear their

uniforms with enough cleavage and bra showing to have no mistaking the intent. They would wear a sash that contained different levels of achievement badges (the “Walk of Shame” badge, the “Triple Play” badge and, of course, “Proper Condom

Application” badge) and carry canteens filled with. . .wait for it. . .  Cosmopolitans! Their troop number? 69!

When I heard this, I howled. But, I could not just enjoy the laugh for the moment because the scope of this is priceless. Let’s drop the “girl” part, because face it, none of us look 10 anymore. Let’s call ourselves Cougar Scouts. And let’s forgo the traditional scout uniform and get a little creative. I, myself, have always coveted the

white patent leather go-go boots from the early ‘70’s so I think they should be the official footwear. I also like a cute tennis skirt with built in panties, after all, we may be cougar’s but we are not easy so it will take some fancy talking to get to the goodies. Any color is acceptable but it must be paired with a black tank top. I mean

we are hot – temperature hot that is, and we are NOT going to be burdened by unnecessary layering. Besides, black is slimming. To accessorize the ensemble, we need a belt – animal print of course, a matching wristlet to carry lipstick, compact and cab fare. Good scouts do carry canteens and they should be filled at all times

with the beverage of choice (mine is red wine) and instead of binoculars, I suggest blinged-out cheater glasses. If you really want to carry something more binocularly, how about a View Master with a picture wheel of gorgeous men? Brownies wore

beanies, Girl Scouts wore berets, Cougar Scouts will wear a scarf as a headband (with or without a Hollywood Bump It and fake hair) and, of course, a tiara for formal meetings. Meetings will be established by each troop with an annual meeting in either Florida or California on alternate years with an optional spa visit mid year.

We could sing altered camp song's:

Do your boobs hang low, do they wobble too and fro

Can you tie 'em in a knot, can you tie 'em in a bow Can you throw 'em over your shoulder like a continental soldier Do your boobs hang low-

Ok - now in rounds. . .

Forget Halloween, I see this as a national club with troops not only in every state, but every town across the U.S. This could be huge! But what about troop dues, you ask? There aren't any. Hell, we already paid ‘em!

Call It What you Will. . .

Menopause.  The Change of Life.  The Critical Period (or really lack thereof).  Whatever you want to call it, I've been ready for it since the day I gave birth to my last child.  No more children; no need for the uterus, the fallopians or ovaries.  I was ready to yank them out and donate them to an organ bank a long time ago.  My gynocologist, however, wasn't in agreement.  So, I toiled on until now.

I've had some symptoms for awhile.  Hot?  All the time (southerners call it "my own personal summer").  Itchy? Check.  But really, the bitchy and forgetful part haven't been so bad. I've been fairly open and ready to poke fun at myself when the sniping bitch rears her head and am quick to spin it back into position. In fact, I pride myself on quick thinking and innovative action.

Last week, a friend dropped by with little notice. I had enough time to pick up the dog toys, put the extra dirty dished in the oven and make a fresh pot of coffee.  And, we had a delightful visit, talking about, of all things, our experiences with The Change.  Her biggest complaint is her swiss cheese memory, which her children are quick to point out when it involves something they claim they have already told her.  You know, things like I'm having fifteen people over tonight, will you cook something?

That evening when Moondoggy came home, I told him of the visit, laughing at the funny stories my friend shared.  I preheated the oven for dinner, then continued the conversation, asking in a somber tone if I had been successful at not being overly moody or bitchy.  Moondoggy assured me, my bitch has been painless and sometimes downright funny.  I felt pretty darn proud of myself.

Proud, until I smelled melting plastic.  The dishes!  I had left them in the oven and forgotten.  My white plastic colander was dripping through the oven grates and pooling on the oven floor at a temperature of 375˚.  The stench overpowering.

I was stunned.  How could I forget?

Moondoggy grabbed his coat and brought me mine.  As he helped me put it on he said, "You know, you only asked about being bitchy, you didn't ask me about how your memory has been."

And The Beat Goes On. . .

Often, during the oppressive days of the summers of my youth, the neighbors with pools would run up a flag signaling that the pool was open.  Like vultures, we would ride around the neighborhood, circling, waiting for the flags so we could pedal home and drag our parents to the neighbor's pool.  We would play games: Marco Polo, Shark, Underwater Tea Party.  And when there was nothing left to do, we’d ask our mom  (who had grown up as the oldest child in her family) to “Judge” our underwater handstands.  Enjoying the poolside herself, she would assign arbitrary numbers to our attempts as a form of judgement without using any uniform criteria.  In other words, she was making it up as we went along.  And it worked.  We would repeatedly attempt to better our score.  As the older child, I caught on to what she was doing so that when I got tired, I joined her at the side of the pool and “helped” her continue to judge my little sister until she was thoroughly spent. I knew the game was over.

When my kids were small and bored and looking to expend extra energy, I would tell them to run around the house and I would time them.  I’d sit on the front stoop and when they returned, assign an arbitrary number for which they would then attempt to beat.  Around the period where my oldest could tell time, he caught on to what I was doing so that when he was tired, he would sit with me and check his watch while his younger brother continued to run around the house in attempt to better his time. (In all fairness, youngest did take the State Championship in the 4x400 at the State Track Meet in his junior year of HS.) My oldest son knew the game was over.

Yesterday, a cold, windy, blecky day, I was home.  No longer a child, my own children grown and out of the house, I pulled the same trick on my dogs.  I stood at the top of the steps and tossed a ball down.  The dogs chased the ball, ran it up the steps and I’d toss it again.  Finally, they figured out they could do it all themselves.  Drop the ball, chase it down and return to the top only to drop it again.  My older dog (12 pounds, age 11) kept pace fairly well, but the “baby” (5 months, 28 pounds) has boundless energy.  On the final toss down the steps, the oldest was in the lead, got the ball, returned to the top of the stairs, ran into the living room (with the baby right behind him) and pushed the ball under the couch where neither of them can reach.  Then, he ran back to the stairs and pretended to drop the ball, sending the baby back down the stairs and on a frantic search.  Older dog curled up on the couch. Game over.

Samantha Brick Thinks SHE Has Problems

Women hate me because I am beautiful.  That's what she said, that's what she wrote and that's what she spent the last week defending on American television as well as in England.  Women hate her because her beauty threatens them in some way.  In fact, her beauty is such a burden that she is often stopped on the street by strangers wanting to give her gifts http:/http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2124246/Samantha-Brick-downsides-looking-pretty-Why-women-hate-beautiful.htmlShe has taken a lot of flack about this article, been called narcissistic - a new and useful buzz word, and generally snickered at by millions of women worldwide who have looked at her and thought, "She's attractive, but beauty beyond words?  No."

I sympathize with her.  I really do.  You see, I suffer from a similar affliction.  I have been graced with, well, fabulous fingernails.  I have long nail beds, which means that even at the difficult times when my nails are short, they look long, luxurious even.  I can't tell you the number of times I am stopped in the checkout line of Target by the clerk who comments on their beauty.  I am always gracious but does she not know the torment this causes the others waiting in line?  Not only do they not possess the blessing of the nails, they are now forced to wait while she stops the line to fawn over my hand.  I can feel daggers shooting from their eyes and I want them to know I feel their pain.  They'll never believe me.  I'm sure they think I have it easy when the truth is, my fingernails are a burden.  I can't quickly and easy pick up the odd coin that is laying on the sidewalk.  I struggle with buttons which puts an insurmountable barrier on my wardrobe choices,  a dilemma I find discriminatory.  And my greatest burden is the moral obligation I feel to those less fortunate when they present their backs to me, suffering, begging.  I must heed the call and so, I scratch.

All of those jealous people who scorn my nails and sneer at my perfect manicures with the mistaken belief that I can't possibly expose them to any harsh work conditions - try this one for size.  My chosen work puts my nails at risk every single day posing great challenges to my work product.  I write.  The words in my head flow forth to my fingers that fly over my keyboard but sometimes those nails slide off the keys, the message gets muddled and it looks like this:

Dobn;t hate me because my fibfer nas are beautifyl.

All of that creates EXTRA work for me and less time to scratch the backs of others.  And the girl with the stunningly beautiful face thinks she has problems.

Coltman is the author of two books. Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! is a humor book based on her blog. Her most recent book, In The Name Of The Father, is a suspense/thriller that reviewers have called a true page-turner. Both books are available through amazon and Coltman's own website.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

I would love to start this with some grand story about my intrepid escapades this summer.  Perhaps the thrill of cruising on an airboat through the wetlands and weeds of the Florida swamps in search of gators in weather so hot, I was never completely dry.  Yeah, I did that.  It was fun.  And yes, there were more alligators than I could count.

Or, learning that 50 means I'm not so good with the upsidedown, twisty roller coasters anymore.  Ask the ride operators at Universal Studios, they can explain.  But, if you were there, stuck in line on the Harry Potter flying experience and they announced over the loud speaker that the ride was "temporarily out of service" - well, it's probably my fault.  Sorry about that.

Or, I could tell you about the day I received a text message from Casey Anthony asking to hide out with me on vacation.  I almost had my phone shut down before realizing that it was a BAD joke from a friend who NEVER, EVER texts but knew I was in Florida.  Ha! Funny stuff Steph.

But, while all of that HAS happened, I've really spent the bulk of my summer sitting on my ever expanding butt, finishing my book, going through edits, and getting it ready for publishing.  And that day came (last Monday).  It's available in paperback on my website with a 20% coupon code available there.  It is also available on Kindle and Nook for $4.99 (links on my site).  Amazon and BN.com will pick it up in a few weeks.

There is still some summer left, so what do I do now?  I'm taking suggestions.  Anyone?
http://www.judicoltman.com

Valentine's Don't

I'm going to risk irritating a lot of women here.  Tomorrow is Valentine' Day, the day set aside to show your spouse, partner, lover, crush just how much you really love them.  It's a day that involves lots of red hearts, cards, candy, special dinners and chocolate treats (ok, not a bad thing).  It is so entrenched in our society that even first graders know the importance of this day and spend time creating their own pink, purple and red mail boxes in anticipation of receiving handfuls of small printed "cards" with their classmates names on the back.

Valentine's Day?  I'm not a fan.

I know, you already think I am party pooper, right?  I despise going to the store and spending a ridiculous amount of  money on a card that, in our house, will be thrown away by the end of the week.  I don't need a card to remind Moondoggy that I love "Us" - if  I haven't made that clear by now, we would be in marriage free fall.  I sure as heck don't want him to go out and spend money on candy (I don't need it), we already dine out more than we should, and that $5 on a card would be better spent elsewhere.  Moondoggy is off the hook in our house.

We will wish each other a Happy Valentine's Day in the morning.  He will leave for work.  I will get chicken out for dinner.  That about does it.  We don't need to set aside a special day to proclaim our love.  At this point, that kind of holiday seems silly.

Now Mother's Day?  That's a different story.  And in case you are wondering, about 90 shopping days left.