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Welcome to LEENINGS, my blog consisting of essays, musings and things I learned along the way.

FOR THE YOUNG’UNS – IT’S LATER THAN YOU THINK

                                                  Empty stage, microphone.

MIDDLE AGED WOMAN:

Hello, you young demographites out there, and the rest of us who don’t count. 

I’m a fossil.  I’m your future.   I’m 57, my husband’s 71.  I used to wake up and wonder if he had a boner, now I wonder if he’s still breathing.  Remember that flashback scene from Annie Hall, where the chubby little old lady said “I used to be a great beauty” and “I was quite the lively dancer”?  Well, I used to be a major babe, and now my tits and my husband’s balls sag to our knees, my vagina’s as dry as the Gobi desert and the only time truck drivers honk at me is when they want me to get out of the way.

Here’s a heartwarming story.  In college when I broke up with my boyfriend for cheating on me, he responded by trashing my dorm room, throwing me around and brandishing a broken curtain rod at me.  So, not being a glutton for punishment, I called campus police, and was told to visit the health center for abuse counseling.  You know, it’s interesting, after 5 minutes of conversation the school shrink told me I was a “hysterical castrating female”.  How irresponsible was that?  So I cut off his dick.  It’s not bad, it tastes like chicken.  If he’d given me a few more minutes he might have found out I like ‘em bald, paunchy and stooped over, he might have gotten laid instead of de-dickified.

Ever notice the words stupid and stubborn start with the same three letters?  It’s eerie.  I looked it up, it’s from the Latin root “stuta”, which means “totally moronic thinking”.  We’ve all seen that farmer standing in the middle of his devastated corn field (hick pose) “Ayeah, this’n here’s the 5^th time in 10 years our farmhouse been swept away by a tornader.  But we’re rebuildin’, we’s Americans, we doesn’t give up so easy.”  Good luck with that, Zeke.  Why not rebuild on that fault line over there?  Mix up the stupid up a little, just for fun.

I had a great father, the best.  He completely prepared me for life.  He was the most amazing raging alcoholic.  Hey, the first thing that happens when you’re born is someone slaps your ass.  It’s like, “Welcome to the world, you little shit”.  Of course that was in “My day”, today they probably jiggle the child gently and whisper “Wake up little darling, fun’s about to start!”  What is it with parents today?  “Look out Chelsea, don’t climb too high on that jungle gym” and “Here, let me strap you into that swing.”  We’re raising a nation of pussies.  In my day we played with live ammo.  We had bb guns, real bows and arrows and climbed trees 50 feet high.  And you haven’t lived until your grandfather tries to make it with you when you’re five.  Builds character for Christ sake.

Who ever told us “It’s all going to turn out great”?  Anyone remember being told that?  But my late, great Hippie Generation persists in believing it, no matter what kind of shit gets tossed our way.   We didn’t have reality television.  We had Donna Reed, Father Knows Best and Mr. Rogers.  Do you know ANYONE like these people?  In real life Donna’s on oxy, Father Knows the Best place to buy cheap gin and Mr. Rogers is a Registered Sex Offender.  Yes,  I’ll be your neighbor, get your dick out of my mouth for heaven’s sake.  You’re not family.

 Yes, it’s all gonna turn out great.  We want the happy ending, we expect it.  Do you think we did that before novels and episodic radio and TV?  Do you think cavemen sat around the fire at night and said “Ugh.  Maybe try hard enough, make T-Rex friend.  Friend close, enemy closer.  Everything turn out great.”  Do you think they drew little sitcom ideas on the cave walls, like “Ugh.  Write 10 minutes setup, one punchline every three sentences for good ratings, then...commercial for deluxe bashing club...(light bulb of idea) we call it AX, for woman.....then bring back funny gazelle.”  I think they said Ugh all the time because everyone smelled.

Now for the good news.  We all want good news, don’t we?  And we get so much of it, 24-hours a day constant crawl, feel good good time news.  Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, floods, tornados, hurricanes, oil spills, mudslides, brush fires, rampant corporate greed, genocide, mass rape, superviruses, Sarah Palin, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, The Tea Party, global warming AND global economic collapse...and let’s not forget Lindsay Lohan’s on dope and that cute little Miley Cyrus is a slut.  Whoo hoo!

And food.  The one thing we old folks can still enjoy without Viagra, even food is getting a bad rap.  This is bad for you, that’s bad for you, according to experts 2/3 of us are obese, diabetic, slovenly couch potatoes.  The other day I was getting ready to throw out stale sour cream and onion potato chips and I thought “Waste not want not, why not scatter them outside for the birds.  The dear, darling little woodland creatures.”  Then I realized “These aren’t good enough for the birds” and I imagined fat, gassy diabetic birds waddling around the yard and sitting down on the grass periodically to catch their breath.  No darlings, no chips for you, ‘cause I care.  Let my husband eat them.

My husband.  I’m married to a six foot two hairy alimentary canal named Art.  His internist says he has the largest colon he’s ever seen, and you know what they say, large colon, large....bowel movements.  Art’s a beast, truly, I’m convinced I married the Missing Link.  He’s a fart or two away from a cage at the zoo, and in 18 years of marriage I can’t eat dinner with him or even stay in the room when he’s eating.  Watching Art eat is like watching a python swallow an antelope whole.  Art doesn’t chew, he sucks his food like a human Hoover, and his hands are a blur.  He’s a little better in restaurants because the ambient sounds drown his sucking, slurping and slobbering noises, but never let this man order anything with a bone.  We were in a five star Manhattan restaurant and I wanted to sink under the table as shocked Armani and Gucci clad patrons at neighboring banquettes watched in horror as my husband sucked and tongued every last speck of flesh and fat off the bone of his porterhouse.  We can never go back to that Denny’s again.

The moment Art wakes up he has to eat or he gets cranky, and the first sentence out of my mouth in the morning is, of necessity, “What do you want for dinner tonight, dear, darling ravenous love of my life?”  He’s got to know his menu for the day, otherwise he gets edgy, yodels and beats his chest.

So, you may be asking yourselves, why did this lovely, highly refined little flower of a woman marry this perpetually flatulent, drooling monster?  Well, in the immortal lyrics of NAS, “Who’s the sexiest?  It’s always the nastiest.”  A moot point now that Art’s 71 and boners are a distant memory without Viagra, which gives him a headache, and might interfere with his meals.  How did I snag this veritable Don Juan, this catnip for women?  I cooked for him.  I’m a good cook, and when Art and I were dating and I was one of his many clamoring concubines I made this sexy, hairy, divine primitive my specialty, Chicken Kiev.  That’s pounded, boneless breast of chicken wrapped around a big ball of garlic/chive butter, then covered in batter and deep fried.  Art’s eyes literally rolled back in his head at the first bite, and he was hooked.  “Marry me, darling, and bring your deep fryer!  Vegas, here we come!  I do, I do, let’s fuck, let’s eat!”

As if the eating noises aren’t enough, Art has Tourette’s Syndrome.  You know, the tic disorder.  He doesn’t have the swearing “Fuck shit piss” kind, he has the snorting, twitching, throat clearing kind.  So, imagine, if you will, a day with my beloved, which consists of nonstop snorting, twitching, slobbering, gargling, crapping, chomping, sniffing and farting.

I’m truly blessed.  Art says I’ll miss his noises when he’s gone, and I say “Please.  Give me the chance to find out”.

So why get up in the morning?  Why not page Dr. Death and call it a day?  Because I’m stupid stubborn stupid.  I’m still waiting for that happy ending, or at least for the tide to turn.  Life is like Florida weather, wait a few minutes, days, months or years, and it’ll change.  We’re all victims of a psychological phenomenon called Variable Reinforcement.  (Neanderthal ) “Ugh?”

We’re at the one armed bandit of Life with our little cosmic cup of nickels.  We put our little nickels in and pull, again and again.  Once in a blue moon we get a payout, then we’re hooked.  We put up with all kinds of shit, rejection and pain because we know that random jackpot could be no further then the next yank.  Free will my ass, we’re all button pushing lab monkeys.  Why haven’t we heard from God lately?  Because he’s speechless with laughter watching us.  Besides,  I’ve got the sun in the morning and the moon at night, and chocolate, Comedy Central and my vibrator never let me down. 

Find your bliss, baby, it’s later than you think.  Peace out.

9/2011