HUSBANDS

 Dad always says "I have liked every one of her husbands."

STOLEN SILVERWARE

 My sweet husband has been stealing silverware from restaurants for well over 35 years, for which I have cringed and have nary a matching set for more than two people in my kitchen drawer.  I am now 63 and have given up, so today  when he was leaving for a three day business trip the last thing I said as he left was "We need spoons." 

THINK AGAIN

 Over the weekend I had to do the weekly food shopping so I headed into good old Smiths out West in Utah, the equivalent to Florida's Publix. Upon entering the grocery store I was neck and neck with two other shoppers, a teenager type about 15ish and his father.  Their relation was easy to see as they mirrored each other from the top of their blonde blonde heads to the pointed boots on their toes.  Cute.

Going for our shopping carts I hear the young man say "Just get a small cart Dad because we don't need too much stuff."   Weaving up and down the aisles we kept passing each other as we gathered our items up for purchase.  

Down the cereal aisle I hear "Do we need that?" causing me to look up at the Dad with a box of Raisin Bran in his hands.  Moving on down another aisle, over the bustle of busy Saturday shopping I hear "Dad we have soup.  We don't need that.    Mom said just get what we need.  Do we need that?" and I thought Jesus Christ, that kid would get on my every last nerve if I had to live with him, related or not.  

Reaching the end of the store while picking up my favorite rootbeer and water bottles I once again encounter the shopping duo as I hear "Dad next time we shop you've got to bring a list and stick to it because you impulse buy and Mom said get only what we need." 

At this point I could not stand it another minute.

I turned to the handsome, miserable, middle aged man and said

"I bet you thought you'd left your wife at home."    

 

 BAD HOUSE FIRE

This past summer my cousin asked me to go with her to a plastic surgeon consultation.  She was interested in getting a breast lift and implants to step in line with so many other middle-aged women seeking to regain their youth.  Oh brother.

I myself am not looking to regain my youth, and I am not fond of being poked, prodded, jabbed, dilated, stuck, stretched, or scanned.  I am not interested in my cholesterol numbers, mammogram results, or scheduling a colonoscopy to dig up god knows what.  Look, I consider old age the last chapter and we have no choice but to keep turnin the pages. If I am sick I will go to a doctor but I know I am not immortal and that makes good sense to me.  When it comes to gravity I'm handlin it my way and the plan is to keep wearin underwire  the way good old Victoria intended.

 I told Suzi  to just put on a good bra and be done with it but no, she was intent on going and taking me with her.  Driving there I reminded her that I do not like doctors, doctors offices, and waiting in general.  She laughed saying "I know I know but I still want to hear what you think after we see what the doctor has to say. 

I warned her.

So.  Off we go.

Walking through the smokey glass doors the cool air rushed out along with the smell of money dipped in scented body butter. "Mmmmm, it sure smells good in here I will give you that much."

As Suzi filled out the standard medical forms I did what I do by looking around and taking notes.  Yuck.  The decorator did everything matchy-matchy like my old obnoxious roommate.  I prefer eclectic . 

What a true pain in the ass she was, all concerned about my unmatched furniture.  Hell, the two sides of face did not match.  And damn if you ever wanted anything to match I'd say it would be the two sides of your face.  But you did not hear me complain.  She was also not a fan of having pets because they don't wear underwear.  You should of seen the two sides of her mis-matched face when I told her she had a problem on her hands then because her new roommate did not wear any either.

A young woman came to the inner door and called my cousins name.  We both got up and followed her aesthetic looking self to the examining room.  The woman looked like a Stepford wife on steroids.  Her peach uniform matched her lipstick, nail polish, and eyeshadow that matched perfectly with the peach paint on the office walls.  

I was then offered to take a seat in the doctor's private office to wait while my cousin was physically examined.   Again I looked around. Peach peach and more peach.  Oh my goodness.  The picture frames, the windrow dressings, carpet, even the furniture was a light distressed peach.  

Shortly thereafter in walked Suzi followed by the surgeon to whom I was introduced.   Well well looky here.   Not only was the whole office dressed in peach but the good doctor too as he extended his hand from his peach shirt and peach plaid tie.  I could not help but smile. He offered us both to please sit, then handed us a photo album that contained large before and after pictures of his patients and their procedures.

Oh my oh my oh my.  By the look on my face I am sure this doctor was thinking., this damn broad is going to blow the sale.  And he would have been right.  After seeing one page after the next of breast, chin, cheek, and butt implants, I felt like both my retinas were ready to fly off my eyeballs.  I just cannot imagine what in the world these women were thinking to do this to their bodies in the name of youth.  How looking like an Alien with a huge butt equates to youthfulness I will never know, but indeed to each their own.  

Take the aged singer Madonna for example.  She was born in 1958 making her 63 years old.  Her public persona for singing and acting is one thing but perhaps she is best known for wearing underwear as clothes.  So one can imagine her plight to stay young is heavy duty.  Her aim has obviously been to look young, sexy, refreshed, and revitalized as she still wants to run around naked.  But I say hell no, it did not work out.  Because instead she looks like she survived a bad house fire and I am left wonderin just how many skin grafts the poor thing had to endure.  This cannot be the desired look, she was going for.  Bless her heart.

After we pulled in the drive at home Suzi seemed a bit irritated as she looked at me with exasperation and asked Well, do you have anything positive to say?"  

"Yes."  I told her.  "Yes, I do. If you decide to go through with this I can pretty much guarantee you that they will match."

SHE'S BEEN SMOKING

I work for a small accounting firm for almost twenty-five years.  When it comes to tax returns we usually see clients once a year but talk to them several times on the phone throughout.  And more often than not the client comes to our office for their accounting services but occasionally we go to them instead.

From the outset of my employment, one of our clients is Mr. Sergio Garcia who owns a top of the line dental lab that services the people who live on Fischer Island, Palm Island, Star Island and Coral Gables.  Basically the posh of the posh in Miami.  A year ago Mr. Garcia opened a new state of the art lab that resides in the penthouse of a luxe high-rise overlooking the sparkling waters of Biscayne Bay.

So this year after preparing his work, my boss and I both wanted to see his new digs but had to go to different clients afterward so we took separate cars which we often do because my boss is an old school smoker.  He had his office built as an addition to the back of his home so that he could enjoy his habit of chain-smoking cigars while at work too.  His wife chain-smokes as well but her choice of pleasure is Marlboros.  Every single thing that comes out of that house and office is reeking and I mean reeking with smoke. 

After getting lost then finding our way, valet parked the cars and the doorman pointed us in the right direction. Walking into the building an old friend of my boss came up to him and they started chatting so I continued on by myself as he said he would meet me upstairs.

While waiting at the elevator door a woman joined me.  She smelled so good I turned to look.  The slender woman was brown as a berry and serious. No one else came along, so we rode to the top of the building together and then got out.  Turns out we were both arriving at the same place, The Sunshine Dental Lab which encompassed the entire floor.

The woman walked in first then surprised me by stopping at the reception desk where she went behind it and sat down.  Looking up at me she gave a rather curt but perfunctory "May I help you?"

"Yes, thank you" I replied continuing "My name is Ivey Mae McFarland and I am here to see Mr. Garcia.  He is expecting me."

She told me I could have a seat.  As she turned to leave, again I got another whiff of her clean and powdery scent like she was in from the beach and freshly showered.  But damn, I was thinkin what a sour personality this woman has when a brilliant flash of diamond drew my eyes to her left hand.  Wow, I thought somebody sure put a ring on it, sour-puss and all.  I started to look around when almost immediately her scent came back by as she returned.

Again, she offered no smile no pleasantries just a curt  "Please follow me" and I did thinking I must find out what she is wearing before I leave. 

My mouth was on the floor as I took in my surroundings. The engulfing glass and chrome were made that much more intense by cool inset lighting that gradually shaded everything in greens and purple as we walked.  Futuristic state of the art on steroids describes what I was seeing there.
   
We rounded a corner and headed down a long hallway.  On our left was a terrarium type of extended greenhouse that gave the effect of entering the Amazon river, waterfalls included. To the right, smokey glass veiled an endless stream of dental technicians as they worked, their heads bowed whilst creating a variety of man-made teeth, oblivious to the comings and goings around them.
Looking about me I could not even imagine the bottom dollar to build this place nor the overhead to run it.

We stopped at an inner office suite where the receptionist swept her hand towards the doorway to acknowledge we had arrived then without a sound she turned to walk away.  Damn, her body language too couldn't have been more off-putting and cold but she sure smelled good.

After she left I looked at the photos placed behind Mr. Garcia's desk then took an instant double-take.  It appeared that the receptionist with the chipper disposition is Mr. Garcia's new wife!  Mr. Garcia had told us a couple of years back that he had divorced and remarried.  So this is her.  Wow.   I did not see that coming.

Just then Mr. Garcia came through the doors with his Latin charm and took my hand to kiss it.  "Hello hello hello Miss lovely Ivey."  Please sit down he gestured and I did.  After we spent about ten minutes catching up with our lives we got down to business.  Mr. Garcia looked over his returns as I asked a few questions he said "hold on let me get something."  He reached for the inner-office phone and punched in a couple of numbers and waited.  With an apparent no response he slammed down the phone and I jumped in my seat.  

Whoa Nellie!  I have known this man a very long time and seen him in many circumstances.  I have seen him at parties, a funeral, a couple of weddings, and of course doing his tax-work for almost 25years.  In all this time I have never seen even the slightest indication of a temper.  His kids have also commented that their Father could not be more reasonable and laid back.  It is a known fact that in the Garcia household their Mother was the disciplinarian. I was immediately curiouser and curiouser.  

Without hesitation, he pulled a cellphone from his pocket and speed-dialed a number that was obviously answered "Where are you! Smoking again ?" he barked with words dripping in anger and I became instantly uncomfortable.  thinking oh brother is there ever trouble in paradise here.

He spat "You can smoke on your own time" then abruptly slammed down the phone.  It was as if he had forgotten I was even there.  My eyes wide as saucers as I watched this calm gentleman losing his temper.  I sat motionless while he then went back behind his desk and dialed his phone again.  

Moments later a tall young man with perfect olive skin and twinkling brown eyes came in.  I knew the handsome man.  He was Sergio Jr and carried all the charm of his Dad, and then some. 

Sergio Sr. asked his son "Can you please bring me the auto-expense file for last year?  Celine would do it but she can't because she is outside smoking." With this, his son replied "Sure Dad.  I'll be right back." As he turned to go he left me with a wink and a smile.

Mr. Garcia and I turned our attention back to his financial planning as if nothing had happened.  Soon Jr. returned.  He handed his Father the folder as his Dad asked "Is Celine finished smoking yet?" "I'm sure I don't know Dad," he said then quickly left the room this time looking at me with a smile and roll of his eyes.  Shortly thereafter Mr. Garcia picked up the phone again and dialed whilst that time I held my breath.

In two minutes tops, Smoking Celine came in a threw a check on her husband's desk and huffed out, her wonderful scent wafting around us.

My uncomfortable level was getting the best of me so I spoke to ease the tension and said "Your wife smells so darn good!" to which he snapped.
"She smells so good because she just sprayed because has been smoking!  She loves to smoke.  She can't work because she is too busy smoking!"

Oh my.  The wrong thing to say.

Mr. Garcia was walking me to the door and saying goodbye when my long-winded boss appeared inside the dental lab.  Apparently, he had been downstairs talking and smoking himself, the entire time I had been working with Mr. Garcia.  His infamous stogie still in his hand as he was reeking of smoke because had not used any of Celine's spray.

THE HANDSOME BUS

Aftershave floats in the air as I slowly make my way, through the sea of tan tasseled loafers, that lead up eighty pair of perfectly pressed dockers. This is the most dashing group of men I have ever seen in my life.  And lucky me I get to travel with them once a year. 

With capacity nearly full, I take my time walking through our plush limousine-bus.  I feel warm eyes upon me as the cool blowing air vents brush my skin and swirl the light fabric of my skirt.  A young man's gaze slowly drops down my legs as I stroll by him, then nestle into the window seat across his aisle. Pausing, then turning to look at the stranger, I catch his eyes as they drift up to meet mine for the short ride to the Clinton Library and piano bar.  

Dated lamps cast a dim light along Mainstreet, magnifying the contrast of the modern lines of the museum that is quickly coming into view.  Once the bus comes to a halt I wait before standing to go, so I can watch.

And I watch some more as the handsome men file off the bus in high spirits.  This is a tough job but someone has to do it I think smiling to myself, then join the line of exiting men, bound for celebration.

I'm here to get the story and from what I can see so far, I can't wait to read it myself.  

SHARPEN YOUR KNIVES OR LIFT SOME WEIGHTS

So after almost eight years of living half of each year in Park City, Utah I need to ask what is the deal with your pizzerias?  I have not ordered a single pizza anywhere at anytime from anyone that is cut all the way through.  At first I did not pay it any mind.  At some point it registered.  Then it became an irritant because often when we order pizza, we are out and about.  Being a writer, I lug enough around as it is so I do not come prepared with a butcher knife or pizza cutter on my person as a daily routine.    

Obviously ripped pizza and messy cheese is not the end of the world.  In the big scheme of anything uncut pizza is totally meaningless.  Still I have to ask what the hell is wrong with these people here?  Are they just not getting enough oxygen?  I have never seen such bland and boring hum-drum people in my life and apparently it reflects in their ability to cut a pizza through.  I mean how much effort does it take?  It can't be that everyone has dull knives, can it?

The last time I ordered pizza it was from a nice family owned Italian restaurant in Salt Lake City.  I had ordered from them once in the recent past and they were off the chain delicious.  The pizza was simply fabulous.  The mozzarella was the good stuff and when melted was still thick and oozing.  It was so outstanding that the fact that it was not cut through was fleeting and unimportant.  To hell with the country's chicken sandwich war between Chic Filet and Popeye's I needed to eat Z. Brothers pizza again. Yesterday I purposely found myself in the same area of SLC and obviously ordered their pizza again. 

This time when I called I remembered to ask " Oh could you please make sure the pizza is sliced all the way through?"  My question was met with polite silence.  Polite because everyone is polite here in Utah, no matter what.  I waited then asked again.  "Could you please make sure the pizza is sliced all the way through?"  To which the weak voice said "You want it double cut?"
  
OK.  Now I am irritated.  This is a thing here?  They have a name for it?  What the hell.  So I say "Look I don't care how many times you have to slice through it I just want the pizza cut into slices like normal people do it all around the country.  I don't want you to outline where I am supposed to cut it when I get the pizza at home.  I don't want to roll the dough, put the sauce and cheese on it, or bake or cut it through.  I want y'all to do it which is why I am at home calling you on the phone and paying you money to make the pizza and bring it to me."
Pause
"Do you want the pizza double cut?"