lifestyle

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Queen of the Road

I know I just wrote about RVs recently and it’s not exactly a topic to expand on, but here we are, expanding. Why, you ask? Well, because apparently Facebook overheard our conversation or caught me “thinking” about RVs and decided to throw a gazillion ads at me to show me the life I’ve been missing.  I’m still not sure how Facebook manages to get inside my head, but that’s a topic for another day.

I will admit, some of the ads for tricked-out RV homes sort of reinforced the crazy notion of quitting the 9 to 5 life and hitting the road.  I can see why people would choose the open road, permanently. Obviously, this isn’t my first or even best dream. But hey, If I can’t pull up stakes and move to Ireland, then I wouldn’t mind travelling America’s highways like Jack Kerouac.

What’s my plan, you ask? Why, purchasing one of the exorbitantly priced, grand motor homes Facebook, in all of its algorithmic wisdom, felt I was qualified for (both mentally and financially, presumably, which just goes to show, Facebook is stupid).

If I’m going on the ultimate road trip, you’d better believe I’m going to do it in style… and in such a luxurious manner that the locals will ask, “Who was that woman?” whenever I pass through their town. Yeah, sure, that’s what they’ll say. What they won’t be saying is, “Who was that annoying tourist with the obnoxious, oversized RV who took up 50 parking spots at the Piggly Wiggly!?”

I’ve done a lot of research (insofar as I skimmed the ads Facebook so kindly showed me) and have decided on the motor home that will fit my personality … which, knowing how my personality changes from day to day, came down to either a Chinook pop-up tent mounted on the back of a scuffed-up 1998 Ford Ranger, OR a completely pimped-out 29-ton, 45-foot-long, 600 HP, 732 square foot hunka hunka burnin’ love called the EleMMent Palazzo Superior. It looks like a brick-shaped Cyclops coming at you at 80mph. Awesome, right!?

Photos from Marchi Motors, Vienna, Austria

Of course, it will have a few of the creature comforts to which I feel entitled. At least two 42” flat screen TVs, a waterfall shower, a king size bed, 800-gallon fresh water tank, at least one bar, and oh, global Wi-Fi (the importance of which, I believe I’ve mentioned before).  Heated floors?  Yes, please. The 732 square foot interior seems a little small, but since the master bedroom is separate from the rest of the coach, I could, in theory, accommodate five “overnighters.” Get your minds out of the gutter… I’m talking book club, here!

I plan on adding some of my own, small personal touches … as you can see here. I mean, after all, this will be my new home!

Photos from Marchi Motors, Vienna, Austria

Another feature that caused me to fall in love with this behemoth is the nifty little sky lounge that emerges, with the touch of a button, on the roof. How cool is that!?

Photos from Marchi Motors, Vienna, Austria

The Sky Lounge will also have a bar (okay, so if you’re keeping track, that’s two bars) and a fireplace. In case I want to pass out while taking in the sights, the couches can be used as beds, because of course they can.

Okay, okay, I know what some of you are thinking:

  • That thing costs about $3,000,000, and…

Yep, that’s it. That thing is amazingly, ridiculously, laughably expensive. No kidding, the starting price sits at $3,000,000.

Why on earth any advertising algorithm in their right mind would target me for this is beyond understanding.

I’ve got it handled, though, just so you know. I plan on winning the next Mega-Millions Lottery. I had a dream last night that showed me the numbers, so I’m putting all my money into tickets. I’m sure to win – I mean, this is my well thought out retirement plan, it can’t fail, right?

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Sticking to Beauty

It’s unbelievable the lengths someone will go to for the sake of vanity.  Case in point?  This lady happily taping her neck to hide her throat wrinkles and wattles.

The inventor of this medical-grade neck wrinkle tape is no stranger to the beauty scene; she gave us the lip plumper (an adult lollipop with no flavors, basically).  She is apparently a grandmother of three at the age of sixty, so there’s that.

No offense to this beautiful lady, but there is no way this tape would work for me.  I superglue my fingers together every time I try to fix a vase, so I can’t imagine trying to tape my neck wattles in the back.

First, you know as well as I do that I would end up taping my hair to my neck.  Doesn’t matter how carefully I pull it back, it will end up taped to my shirt, my face, the mirror, and my dog.  And while this tape may not work on neck skin, I guarantee it will stick to anything and everything else. That’s just a given.

Second, I am well aware of my own luck.  The tape would blow out half-way through a presentation at work, setting my epic folds free in a glorious explosion of skin and fat … I can see the slow-motion capture on YouTube now.  My peers would be utterly transfixed and fascinated by my waving wattles; they couldn’t possibly be expected to take me seriously after that. The tape, under the super pressure I’d need to rein in my wrinkles, would slingshot across the room, taking out a few coffee cups on the way and smacking the new CEO square in the forehead.

Look, I’m all about women doing whatever they need to do to feel better about themselves, but neck tape?  Please, ladies, just say no to neck tape.

I agree that our necks can make us look much older than we are, so I proudly introduce my own invention:  wattle staples.  These can be used in any common stapler, and they aren’t just for neck wrinkles!  Got sagging boobs?  Staple ‘em.  Droopy butt?  Staple it!  And those obnoxious butterfly wings under your arms?  Staple those, too.  I have a staple for everything!  Defy your age, and gravity, by Stapling It! You know, I really should be on Shark Tank with all of my fantastic ideas. I’ve got entrepreneur stapled written all over my face.

OK, so the concept of taping your neck is actually not a new one. There are lots of other brands and uses, too.  Many stars have been taping body parts for years.  I applaud them for not going under the knife, but I am disappointed that they are setting the example for us common folk that aging is unnatural and evil.  It’s not.  I’ve earned every wrinkle, crease, and droop on my gloriously imperfect body. And so have you.

Come on, I mean, we have fake nails, fake boobs, fake butts, fake eyelashes, and even fake hair; now, we have neck tape to complete the package?  Yes, feeling good about yourself is important, but why aren’t we happy with ourselves to begin with?

I blame media for setting unrealistic beauty goals for women. Aging stars are displayed in all of their perfection, looking half their age, as beautiful and timeless as money can buy.  And make no mistake, money does buy youth.  Age-defying stars and models probably spend more money on time-stopping surgeries than most of us will ever invest in mortgages. Even those stars who want to age gracefully are often victims of post-photo shoot airbrushing because the editor of so-and-so magazine decided they didn’t want a naturally aging woman on their cover. God forbid. Hell, even those stars who are already flawless are routinely airbrushed to create a next-level completely unattainable vision of youth and beauty.

For the rest of us, thank God there is medical-grade neck tape!  Ladies (and some guys, too), do what you need to do to feel beautiful, it’s none of my business.  Frankly, though, spending $16 plus shipping and handling on neck tape is a little silly when you can get duct tape at the dollar store for fifty cents.  You’re welcome.

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I’m Not Lazy, I’m Allergic

This has been a hell of a past few months for me.  Thus far, science has vindicated me in that my slovenly lifestyle means I’m a genius, my wine consumption will let me live forever, and now my favorite so far:  I am allergic to exercise.

click to read the Popular Science article (which has way more actual facts than mine)

I always suspected it, to be honest.  Once I rise from the couch, my heart rate soars, I feel the blood rushing to my head, and I crave a chocolate bar.  Classic signs of exercise allergies (it’s true, I swear).  Apparently, exercise-related allergies are worsened when combined with some foods.  For me, eating a Kit Kat on the treadmill has tragic consequences. And not in the way you’d suspect. So of course, to protect myself, I gave up the treadmill.

I can just see my next doctor’s appointment.  I imagine it will go something like this:

Doctor:  So, you’ve gained 55 pounds in the last two months since you’ve been here.

Me:  I’ve had to abstain from all exercise.  I’m allergic.

Doctor:  I’m sorry, what?

Me:  I read it on the internet, so it must be true.  Just to be safe, I’ve installed lift chairs on my stairs.

Doctor:  Well, I think that you…

Me:  And I call a taxi to drive me to the mailbox daily.

Doctor:  Let me guess; you call a taxi to take the trash out?

Me:  Don’t be ridiculous.

Doctor:  Well, that’s good because I…

Me:  I use Lyft for that.

Doctor:  I see you are wearing a Medic Alert necklace.

Me:  Sometimes I need to get off the couch suddenly.  I like to be prepared.

Doctor:  What are you eating?

Me:  Oh, I eat a variety of foods.

Doctor:  Well, that’s good.

Me:  Pizza on Mondays, lo mein and fried rice on Tuesdays, eggplant parm on Wednesdays, pasta Alfredo on Thursdays…

Doctor (interrupting):  That sounds like it’s all delivery food…

Me:  Hey, Doc, I’m not taking any chances.

Ok, so this sounds like a real cop out, I admit, but now that people are coming forward with their exercise allergies, I am ready to come forward with some of my own personal allergies. (Yes, I know being allergic to exercise is a real thing, and my heart goes out to anyone who suffers from such a condition, but that’s not going to stop me from using this scientific finding to my advantage. I mean, come on.)

  1. Laundry: I am filled with an intense feeling of dread whenever I see a pile of laundry.  I have trouble catching my breath, and my eyes water.  This could be because of my kid’s gym socks, but I’m playing it safe.
  2. Dishes: I cringe when I see a sink full of dirty dishes. I find that after doing dishes for an extended period of time, my hands develop a strange, prune-y type skin reaction.  To avoid this, I choose to use paper plates (biodegradable!).  It is a sacrifice I must make for my own good.
  3. Driving: Strange feelings of rage envelop me when I am driving around idiots.  I feel almost blinded by anger, and my mouth makes very odd noises that my friends call “cursing.”  It is very stressful and frightening.
  4. Mirrors and Scales: This is a strange allergy where I cannot recognize the old lady in the mirror and I don’t trust scales.  I live with the mirror allergy, but I avoid the scale allergy at all costs.
  5. Healthy Eating: Tofu makes my stomach heave oddly, as does soy milk.  I find the only cure for this allergy is an immediate stop at a Dairy Queen for a chocolate-dipped ice-cream cone.
  6. Wearing a Bra: Somehow, I get through this one daily with no lasting ill effects.  I have mastered the art of removing the offending garment without taking off my shirt as soon as I walk in the door, just before any lasting harm can be done.
  7. Newscasts: I get sick to my stomach whenever I see any newscasts any more.  I’m afraid this is one allergy that will only get worse, and one that I share with a lot of people. For at least the foreseeable future, there is no known cure.

Vindication is a sweet, sweet word.  I have been proven correct on so many of my theories that I feel unstoppable. What’s next?  Proof that lettuce and rice cakes cause weight gain?  Just wait for it, loyal friends, I haven’t been wrong yet.

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When I Win the Lotto

Let’s be clear.

I will win the mega-millions Lotto.  This was told to me by a fortune-teller at my local carnival this past summer.   She also told me I would get a break, and she was right; my bank account is as broke as they come.  How did she know!?  It boggles the mind. Truly.

The first thing I will do as a mega-multi-millionaire is to run for president.  Hold on, someone just told me that’s already been done.  Damn.

My next plan as a future Lotto winner is to buy The Perfect House.  You know the one; with the swimming pool in the kitchen, the bowling alley in the foyer, and the self-cleaning bathroom?  I love New York, and I also love California.  I would happily move to either place, or maybe both, if I didn’t have to worry about making a living.   That would be the extent of my real estate investments, though, because I’d be traveling all of the time.  If it weren’t for my animals…well, and a general lack of funds…I’d never be home as it is.  Since this is my future, according to Madame Mystery at the Country Fair, I’m interviewing animal caretakers and looking into buying each pet a mobile home.   Just kidding; Rufus the Invincible has a license but he doesn’t drive.  Wouldn’t it be great to have enough money to take them with me as I trek the world, though?

I’m not a big lover of stuff.  Sure, stuff is great, but instead of buying even more stuff, I’d indulge my laziness. I’d have servants – paid very well mind you. In return for a generous yearly salary, room and board, medical insurance, the whole nine yards, they would have to be on call 24/7. And having lived with myself for quite some time now, I know that I have bad days where I’m …um…grumpy, shall we say? On days when I’m less than my nice self, I’d offer up an extra $200 or so in cash in advance – first thing in the morning (forewarned is forearmed they say) and explain to all and sundry, today I’m a bitch. Sorry. But here’s $200.

feed me! oh, was that harsh? here's some cash!

I’m sorry for what I said while I was hungry.  Here’s some cash.

One of these well-compensated individuals would be my “runner.”  If I want coffee or some of that great carry out seafood from across town, I’d just call the runner. I’d also have a chef, but one that does more than make those frilly little dishes that look like cat food with a piece of sidewalk weed on them.   My chef will be as versed in good old home cooking as he is in fine French cuisine.  “A big old slab of homemade meatloaf drowning in gravy, Monsieur Snooty, if you please, and  a loaf of your finest bread, with chocolate mousse for dessert.  And a diet Coke.”   At midnight if I’m hungry for a snack or a full-blown meal, I’d just buzz the chef’s quarters.   Heck, let’s take it all the way and send the runner to the kitchen for my snack. Oh yeah. I know how to live.

Now, we’ve discussed my mobile pet idea, but of course I won’t be travelling ALL the time…I would eventually make pit-stops at home. So for those times when we are home, I’d hire someone to clean up all the cat hair and hairballs.  This would be an awesome job for someone, seriously.  I’d pay them well to dump litter boxes and clean up outdoor…errrr, leavings.  These dainty hands will never again flick a hairball under the couch, or pour more litter on top of the old in a vain attempt to get out of changing the box.  Don’t judge me, you’ve done it too.  This person also gets to take my dogs out whenever the need arises.  I may just train the dogs to buzz for their caretakers themselves and eliminate the middleman altogether. The middleman being me. Just so you know. Cause I’m lazy.

me...being my lazy self

me…being my lazy self

No more stuck in traffic for THIS Lotto winner.  I mean, I might be stuck in traffic but I wouldn’t have the “stuck in traffic driver stress.” You see, I’d never drive myself again…anywhere. I could just lean dramatically back in my seat and sigh loudly, like I did when I was a teenager.  Good times.

With all the time and money in the world at my disposal, you’d best believe I would be one sexy, albeit idle, chick.  I’d have salon and spa days, and relax on the French Riviera, drink at a café in Tuscany, and hide myself away in a thatch-roofed cottage on the coast of Ireland. You know. Just the essential travel spots.  I have already bought a cover shoot for Glamour, in case you’re wondering.  Madame Mystery insisted that I would be adored by millions and loved by all.  Or was it that I owed millions and would be sued by all?  It’s a little hazy, and I was still reeling from the Tilt-A-Whirl.

I would need a hobby to occupy my time.  Of course, right? Everyone needs a hobby.  I’m dangerous with pointy objects, so knitting is out.  I’m not very athletic, so sports would be out, too.  Thank goodness for that; that last one involved excessive movement.  Who the hell wants to do that!? I decided to Google a bit of fancy hobbies, and my research turned up the following.

  • Collecting fine antiques: This isn’t your grandmother’s china cabinet here.  We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on a rare coin, stamp, rug, or piece of jewelry.  On top of this, I would need to build a special storage facility and insure the whole thing.   Sounds like a lot of work for things I can’t really use, doesn’t it?
  • Investing in an art collection: Up until now, I have considered the TV Guide as a valuable artistic statement.  Turns out, there are paintings and sculptures that I don’t like or understand for several million dollars apiece.  I can own some of this baffling work for myself, if so inclined.  I’d pay other people to look at it and make appropriate “oohs” and “aahs.” But then I’d need to get insurance, a security guard, an alarm system. Who has time for all of that?
  • Race Car Driving: I kid you not, I could enter the exciting world of race car driving.  Probably, the equally exciting world of hospital emergency rooms as well.  If I visited the hospital enough times, I would just build a wing in my name…provided I remember my name after the accidents.   This fine sport costs hundreds if not thousands of dollars per hour when on the track. That doesn’t take into consideration the medical bills. Blech.
  • Boating: Nothing says indulgent like purchasing a boat as big as my house and burning through enough fuel in a half hour to power an entire third world country for a year.
  • Gambling in high stakes games: When the opening bid is a million dollars, I think I’ll leave my inner Kenny Rogers on the table and just fold ‘em.

Maybe fancy hobbies aren’t for me. I just couldn’t get into anything like that. Oh wait, I do know one hobby I could get into. I could collect animals – all my favorites: pigs, horses, sheep, chickens, cows, dogs, cats, the works. Emptying out a livestock auction or a shelter, now that I would enjoy. The money I would spend on fuel for a race car each week could pay a keeper to take care of them – and what it would cost to buy a boat or that antique umbrella holder dipped in gold could surely buy the necessary property on which to build a sanctuary to keep them healthy and happy.  Now THAT, that I could get into.

When I win the Lotto, I can see myself still being me, only a hell of a lot less stressed…and maybe a few pounds heavier.  I’d like to think I’m not one of those individuals that money would change.  I’d also sure like to find that out for myself one day.

In the meantime, if you see Madame Mystery, tell her I’m still waiting.

just sitting here...waiting...any day now...

just sitting here…waiting…any day now…