Why You Should Tip Your Hairdresser, Generously.

 Photo Credit: Old Shoe Woman via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Old Shoe Woman via Compfight cc

“I look like my mother,” I said to my hairdresser, Lola, as she was preparing to cut my wet hair.

“All woman say that when their hair is wet,” she said.

“Wow, that’s interesting,” I responded. “You should write a book on women.” The blogger in me kicked in and I asked Lola to share some other things she’s learned from her days of coloring, cutting and blowing.

She thought for a minute, and said, “How about I share what a bunch of us (hairdressers) were talking about when we had a few drinks in us?”

“Great,” I said.

“Well, for starters,” she said, “one time we talked about how we would kill some of our clients. She picked up her scissors.

“Interesting,” I said. Thank God, I didn’t complain when she took me a bit late.

“I thought I might like cutting into someone’s throat,” she said, “just like this! Swish!” I looked in the mirror and saw her pretend swipe across my throat.

“Cute.” I said as I calculated previous tips I had given to Lola. Were they enough?

“Then there’s the flat iron,” she bent my head forward so she could work on the hair on the nape of my neck.”When it’s hot, the flat iron reaches a temperature of 450 degrees.” She put down the scissors and waved the flat iron around. I could see she was definitely warming to her subject.

“Is that the same as a curling iron,” I asked. I remembered the time I forgot to call and cancel my appointment.

“No, the flat iron is definitely the way to go if you want to kill a client.” She really was warming to her subject.

I looked at her array of brushes,scissors and irons on her counter top. I don’t think I ever gave Lola a Christmas present.

Lola finished. I gave her a generous tip, and escaped to my car, happy to be alive.

This Christmas, things would be different.

Lions, Lunch, and Life

Photo Credit: ahisgett via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: ahisgett via Compfight cc

There is a woman in a TV health insurance commercial, and she annoys me.  She looks fit and young for her age as she briskly hikes on a trail. She says something like, “I’m in my sixties, and I’m looking forward to a long life….blah, blah. “

Long life? How does she know? What’s a long life anyway?

I have always wanted to reach through the TV and smack that broad for her presumptuousness.

If I were making the commercial, I would insert a mountain lion on the trail behind the woman, and the mountain lion would be stalking her. He might even gobble her up and smack his lips. Yummy.

Or maybe not.

Maybe, instead of the woman, the mountain lion would find a plump mule deer for his lunch.

Then, the sixty year old smart-ass woman would finish her hike and go back to her mountain lodge.  There, at the lodge’s patio restaurant, she would meet up with the rest of us, sitting around and chowing down on our reuben sandwiches with our beers. She’d brag about her exquisite romp and all the beautiful things she got to see…that we missed because we were hanging around the lodge. She’s just that kind of na-na-na-na-na-na type. I bet you know someone just like her.

But maybe she has the right idea? I don’t know.  Crazy isn’t it?

Advice to FIFA about Luis Suarez

Photo Credit: Jeffrey Beall via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Jeffrey Beall via Compfight cc

I may not be an expert on many things, like soccer, but I am an expert on biting.

When my son, at age three was a biter, I solved the problem. I went to the closet, and got our dog Bo’s  leash.

Then I held the leash in front of my son and said,“If you act like a dog, then we will have to go to the vet and get dog shots.”

My son never bit again.

Why We Need Greeters At The Post Office

Photo Credit: santheo via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: santheo via Compfight cc


Photo Credit: eVo photo via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: eVo photo via Compfight cc



Some of us get really nervous and confused when we have to choose the right forms to fill out at the post office.  We are post office wimps.

We look at the line of customers waiting to be served. . There are fifteen people ahead of us, and, oh yes, there is one postal worker behind the counter.

We look at the many forms in their neat little stacks on the writing counter adjacent to the people on line.  We ponder, “Golly, which one do I need?”

Then we look up at the signs over the postal worker’s head. These signs are supposed to help us. We study the signs. They do not help us, and we feel stupid.

We look back at the fifteen people on line, and wonder, if they would just let us ask one teeny, tiny question of the nice postal worker behind the counter.

One look at their snarling faces tells us, “Don’t even think of asking a question ahead of us.

So, we wait on the end of the line and start filling out the forms that we think are correct.

Three more people come in to the Post Office and, since we are not finished with our forms, we invite them to get on line ahead of us.

They do. Then they whip out their pens and start filling out their forms on the counter.

Because we are wimps, we say nothing.

We wait on line. Finally, we hear our “Next,” and we advance to the desk.

One form (the green one) is right, but the other one is totally wrong. The post office worker tells us what color to get. Before we leave her window, we whisper, ever so softly, “Can I come right back up to you and not have to stand in line again?”

She didn’t even have to talk. Her look said it all.

We mince right back to the end of the line which now has 17 people on it. We fill out the form and get on the back of the line again.

Overcome with frustration, nerves and the need to eat a half gallon of Haagen Dazs, we walk off the line and out of the post office, get in our car, and drive fifteen minutes to the post office in the next town. We know that there is a 7-11 store in that strip mall, and they sell Rum Raisin.

No one is on line, and the kindly postal worker helps us mail our letter. We go next door and buy a pint of Haagen Dazs Rum Raisin.

So, that’s why we need Greeters at the Post Office. Greeters will help us wimps stay on our diets.


Heights and Bridges: Going Over the Edge!

Photo Credit: churl via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: churl via Compfight cc

Here is a lovely picture of a big, tall, bridge. Now look up at the big blue sky over the bridge.

Do you see a woman’s head floating around in the big blue sky over the bridge?  The head has dyed brown hair, eyeglasses and a mouth, wide open, screaming.

The head belongs to a woman who is having an out-of-body experience.

The rest of her body is driving (sort of) down there, on the highway on the bridge, three lanes north and three south. The woman’s body is driving south and her car is straddling the center and inside lane. Next to her car, in the outside lane, is a huge tanker truck. Way up in the sky, the woman’s head secretly thanks the tanker for blocking her view of the edge of the bridge. Bridges and their edges make her have panic attacks like she’s having now.

The problem with having panic attacks on bridges and going 11 mph while straddling two lanes in a 50 mph zone, is sometimes other drivers get angry. They line up behind the woman’s car and honk or tailgate. Up in the sky, her head sees them banging on their steering wheels in total frustration, and she feels their pain.

Her head tries to will her body to relax. “Breathe.” she commands her faraway body. “Count to ten. Sing! ‘The farmer in the dell. The f–ker in the dell. Hi ho…’” It’s useless. She can’t get enough air to get the words out.

“This will be the day that I die,” she thinks.

Meanwhile down in her body, her sweaty hands clutch the steering wheel. She prays that her hands won’t slip on the steering wheel and send her over the edge of the bridge. “Over the edge! That’s a funny one.” She’s already over the edge! Up in the sky, her floating head enjoys the irony.

At last it’s over. As her car arrives at the end of the bridge and on to solid road, the woman’s head falls from the sky and reconnects with her neck and the rest of her body. She is spent.

“Never again,” she says. “I will never do this again, as long as I live.”

But she lies.  She still drives on bridges, climbs mountain ledges, and rides up the old wooden rickety escalator at Macy’s to the 7th floor Woman’s Department.

So, if you are in some high place, and next to you  is a wacky pear shaped woman, introduce yourself.

You might hear her say, “Hello. My name is Rose, The Nothing Expert, and I am afraid of lots of things that go up.”

“Welcome Rose,” you might say. “You’re among friends.”

Let’s Go Shopping, Pear Shaped People!


Photo Credit: Auntie P via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Auntie P via Compfight cc

I don’t usually write fashion posts. There’s a really good reason for that, and it’s called my children and friends laugh at my taste. But sometimes, I really have no choice. If you have any doubts about this, scroll up to the previous post and the photo of me and Dr. Ruth.

Caveat: This blog post is NOT about Dr. Ruth. It’s about those of us who are pear shaped. That would be me.

I looked up the words, pear shaped. Synonyms I noted were rotund, bottom heavy and fat. As you read this, if you have been described as “pear shaped” raise your hand. Thank you.

Now, I’m going to take this fashion blog a bit further. Let’s talk about a particular kind of pear, the Comice Pear. Comice pears are considered the queen of all pears because they are so sweet. They have a really special attribute….Ta Da drum roll! Comice pears are short! Foodie bloggers have also called them “squat, broad, stubby and rather blunt.”

To summarize: Comice pears are short and fat. If you consider yourself comice pear shaped, raise your hand. Thank you. This blog is for you.

Now, let’s just say you have the great luck to be shaped like a comice pear, and you decide to go shopping for a nice dress or a nice pair of pants. You will probably want to kill yourself.

An example of a comice pear size is 22 petite.

You start off in the Petite Department in your local department store. You look around the petite shop and see so many pretty things in solid colors of black on black, brown on brown, charcoal on charcoal. If there are any prints, they are tiny ones. Their individual designs are the size of a salt crystal.  This is the kind of stuff my friend, Joy, wears, and she’s super slender and super fashionable.

So you go up to the little mini salesgirl, “Do you have any size 22 petite?” you politely inquire.

Screwing up her itty bitty nose, she will say, “Oh, no. we don’t carry that size here. We only go up to size 16 and, even then, we have very few of that size. You need to go to the Woman’s Department.”

So down you waddle to the Woman’s (big and fat) Department! You know… the department that’s found in the lower level next to the king size sheets and the tractors. Ahhh…a proliferation of bountiful color and gigantic prints. You see flower prints the size of watermelons, leaves the size of palm fronds, and large lusty animal prints.

And speaking of animal prints…how about all of those stripes? Each strip is about eight inches wide and, of course, horizontal!

These striped prints are super cool, if you are tall like a giraffe.

But you are short, like a comice pear.

And these prints are just on the capris.

“I don’t want capris,” you say to the short, chubby salesgirl as she bends over to put something in the lower drawer. You find herself talking to her plumber’s crack because her pants have slipped down, just like yours do.  “I am looking for a pair of pants that go to my ankle because I’m short and I want to elongate my legs, not cut them off at my calves,” you explain.

“Sorry, we only have a few petite pants, and they’re mixed in,” she says. Not a good omen.

So you go through the racks and, you finally find one pair of petite size 22 dark, heavy jeans.

The problem is…it’s July 1 and it’s very hot. You know, like thighs- stick- together- hot.  Sturdy, heavy denim jeans like these should really be repurposed by the fire department as nets for catching falling air conditioners.

Long ago, I told my friend Joy that we could make a zillion dollars if we started a business that just catered to the short fat set. I even volunteered to be the model. Joy could do everything else, designing, styling, buying, and selling. I am still waiting for Joy to come through. Until then, if there are any venture capitalists, and you are reading this blog, you will remember this day as the day your destiny changed. We, who are comice pear shaped, are out there, and we’re waiting for you. I volunteer to be your model.

I even have a name for our business. We can call it Pear Wear!

Chatting with Dr. Ruth on the Line to the Ladies’ Bathroom


Dr. Ruth Westheimer and Me

Dr. Ruth Westheimer and Me

We were both on the 45 minute wait line for the Ladies’ Restroom at The Javits Center during Book Expo America and BookCon. Most of the other ladies were under the age of twenty, and did not recognize the celebrity in our midst. I recognized her immediately and chatted with her about…you’d really like to know, but I won’t say.

Dr. Ruth was one of the kindest, friendliest people I have ever met! When I asked her if I could take her picture and send it to my kids with the caption, “Mom giving advice to Dr. Ruth,”  she readily gave her consent! What a wonderful lady!

How To Do Nothing Well in the Rain

It’s raining hard. My eyes are closed. I am doing Nothing.

But, damn, I am doing Nothing so well! That’s why I am The Nothing Expert.

Here are Seven Ways to Do Nothing Really Well in the Rain.

  1. Open your window.
  2. Sit with your morning coffee, close your eyes, and listen to the rain.
  3. Don’t talk.
  4. Don’t text.
  5. Take another sip of coffee.
  6. Remember other times when you heard that rain.
    • Was it from the inside of a tent after your dog tracked in the mud?
    • Was it on the morning of your kid’s outdoor wedding?
    • Was it on a Monday morning when you had to get up and get to work?
    • Was it on a Monday morning after you called in sick and went back to bed?
    • Was it the third consecutive rainy day when your family stayed in that little room at the lake motel?  Were you playing Go Fish with the kids on the motel bed?  Were you reading and coloring with them?  Were you trying to get everybody warm because their clothes were still wet from the day before?
    • Did your kids run out of the motel, down to the dock, the minute there was a lull in the downpour?   Then ten minutes later, did they skedaddle back to the motel room when the thunder and lightning started up, again?
  1. Walk to the open window and smell the rain.
    • I had a teacher once who told me the rain smell was ozone gas. I don’t care.
    • I prefer to think of the smell of the wet leaf pile where my cousin, Roberta, and I used to dig for fishing worms. We got some big, fat, juicy ones. Yummy! We were about eight then. Her son’s getting married this week-end.

The rain has stopped. There is some law, probably from my mother that decrees “When the sun comes out, you will leave the apartment and go outside.”

Therefore, I must stop doing Nothing. I must start doing something. Oh drat.

What does rain make you remember?

How do you do Nothing well?  I’d love to hear from you.

The Masked Intruder in the Bedroom

There was this dead raccoon, in the road just ahead of my car. I didn’t see him until I was right on top of  him. Swerve and hit another car, or run over him?  I ran over him. He made a thud. It made me sick. I felt guilty too. Someone else would have stopped,  done something. I just kept on going.

I thought about my earlier experiences with raccoons as I drove away. Raccoons and I have had an intimate relationship…in the bedroom.

A raccoon was in our attic and he hung out right over my bed, the one I share with Jerome, the Great and Good.  It started with the sounds we heard. They were not the scampering sounds of squirrels; they were slow, plodding, deliberate sounds—diabolical sounds, if you must know. I tried to scare the raccoon away by banging a tennis racket against the ceiling. It didn’t work. We called an exterminator the next day and he came and set up a trap in our attic. I supplied the tuna fish.

At three o’clock in the morning, Diabolical, his new name, stopped plodding and got himself caught in the trap. We knew he was trapped because he stopped plodding and started screaming.

We had to wait until morning for the exterminator to come and get the cage out of the attic through the trap door in our bedroom closet. It is not fun to see a man climbing down from the ceiling in your bedroom closet, holding a  cage enclosing a cowering raccoon. I confess. I did not say, “Aw, poor raccoon. You need a hug.”

The exterminator took Diabolical to another place where he could crawl into somebody else’s attic.

Or did he? Maybe Diabolical found his way to the Palisades Parkway on that fateful day when some other motorist killed him and I drove over him. But the sounds of the raccoon…in my attic, in his cage and under my car— I can never get those sounds out of my head.


The Battle of the Imaginary Friends

Photo Credit: jef safi via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: jef safi via Compfight cc

Yikes! My two imaginary friends were at war again.  Overthinker was winning and keeping me from writing this blog.  I say, “You’re so finished, Overthinker. Get lost!”

Overthinker”s arch rival, GrimStreaker, is back….thanks to an energizing four days at Book Expo America!

Grim says, “Rosie, write and have fun! Let your true crazy self shine through.”

That’s why my next post is going to be about a raccoon, actually raccoon road kill.

Thanks #BEA14 and all the wonderful presenters and participants for the stuff you taught me!