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Saturday, August 06, 2016

Malbec is My Emotional Support Pet

These days I seem to know many people having papers declaring their pet an “emotional support pet.” This way they can bring their pet everywhere from restaurants to grocery stores to department stores to work and on airplanes. With their pet by their side they feel secure and safe and empowered. Bullshit.

Now I know there are people who legitimately need pets for their emotional support and psychological well-being, and I truly support them. I applaud the pets who are trained to help those in need. It’s tremendous to see a trained pet in action when their owner is in crisis.

With the onslaught of people claiming they can’t go anywhere without their emotional support pet, it makes it difficult for those who really need their pets for support to be taken seriously.  

Like the gluten-free fad, there’s the emotional support pet fad. What’s next? I can hardly wait.

I personally know dog and cat owners who’ve gone online and bought papers to declare their pet an emotional support pet.

One dog owner did it so she wouldn’t have to pay a dog sitter. She brings her slobbering pooch to work even though the building doesn’t allow pets in the offices. She has the papers now so bow-wow.

A cat owner I know did it so she could have her cat sit next to her on an airplane. Without her cat she claims she would be too stressed, so her cat goes on vacation with her. Meow.

So… not to be left out, I have decided that Malbec wine is my emotional support pet. (My busy life doesn’t allow time for a dog, and I really dislike cats.) How did I manage this? I logged online and purchased an emotional support paper from Doctor Bombay (accepts all credit cards). The paper clearly states that I need Malbec wine in order to successfully get through the day. If I don’t have Malbec, I could go into an emotional and psychological downward spiral.

No matter where I go I have my bottle of Malbec. I sip when I get up in the morning. I sip in the shower. I sip on the subway. I sip when I’m thirsty. I sip before going to a meeting. I sip during the meeting. I sip after the meeting to de-stress from the stressful meeting.

I double-sip when someone says President Trump.

I sip while walking down the street. I sip whatever I damn well feel like it.

My paper clearly states Malbec only. Not Syrah or Shiraz or Beaujolais or Pinot Noir. Only Malbec. It’s my wine… oops, pet of choice.

Now, no one can ban me and my Malbec from any establishment in America because I have the paper to prove it’s for my emotional well-being.


I’m sipping right now…

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

The De-Evolution of Friendship


It used to be you met someone, became friends, and hung out doing friend things. You introduced them to your other friends and everybody got together and everybody had fun. It was a sacred group, a private club of sorts where secrets were kept and memories were made.

You compared your friends to the friends on “Friends” or the friends on “Sex And The City” or even the friends on “Golden Girls.”

Was your best gal pal a Phoebe, Rachel, Monica, Samantha, Charlotte, Miranda, Dorothea, Blanche, Rose, or Sophia?

Was your best guy pal a Ross, Chandler, or Joey?

You and your friends got together in-person and did things together in-person. Oh, remember the time when you got so drunk… and that other time you woke up in bed with…  well… fill in the blanks with your own experience.

Now, with Facebook and Texting in-person friendships have gone the way of the music CD and the land-line telephone with in-person social intercourse being replaced by social media.

I have a couple of close friends I haven’t seen in months. Months! It never occurred to me that it’s been that long until recently when I was telling someone about what my friend was telling me. I suddenly realized it wasn’t a voice conversation with my friend but texting. I tried to think of the last time we got together in-person and my memory could not go back that far.

How did this happen? Why did this happen? 

What is even sadder is that it’s just the way it is these days. Text me. Don’t call me. It’s easier to text.

This has been a gradual de-evolution of friendship. It's something I hardly noticed but eagerly participated in through my tapping fingers on my cell phone texting keyboard.  Why drive across town when I can interact with my friends from the comfort of the couch or the comfort of the bed or the comfort of the toilet anytime day or night?

As I look out the window at people on the street I noticed they’re walking alone and they always seem to be texting…

So, instead of the Friends theme “I’ll Be There for You,” there’s a new song on the horizon… and it’s called “I’m Just a Text Away.”

I’m Just a Text Away
I’ll answer every night and day
I’m Just a Text Away
Emoticons say all I have to say
I’m just a Text away
Dear friend forever in my cyberspace
I’m Just a Text Away
But damn I can’t remember your face…


Friday, June 10, 2016

My Fear of Flat


Everybody fears something.

Some fears are warranted and some fears are downright silly. Well, silly when you’re not the one who’s fearing. I have a silly fear…

I fear flat tires.

When I see people on the side of the road with a flat tire I immediately pray to the God of Flat Tires to have their tires suddenly inflate so they can go on with whatever it was they were doing before the dreadful “Hsssssssssssssssss” and lopsided drive that forced them to the side of the road. (Can you sense my anxiety when reading that sentence?)

My fear began years ago when I was a husky teen (aka fat-assed). Yes, I was husky and frequently bought pants in the husky section of Sears Roebuck. Some people would say it was baby fat, but once puberty hits, it’s no longer baby fat, it’s just plain ‘ole fat.

So there I was a teenage fat-assed kid with the back tire of my Sears ten-speed flat. I walked my bike up the street to the nearest Shell Gas Station to fill my tire with air.


The first thing I saw was my arch-enemy’s mother at the gas pump filling her car with gas.  I looked at her. She looked at me. There was eye contact, but certainly no acknowledgment. An omen of things to come…

I must confess, at that time of my life I was a virgin-air-pumper. I had no idea how to properly fill a tire, so I kept filling the tire until it felt real hard and full.

I then climbed on top of the bike to ride it home.  Once my fat-ass hit the seat there was a loud pop and an extra-long “Hsssssssssssssssss.”  My tire blew like an exploding fart that shakes your body to its core.

My arch-enemy’s mother heard it all and saw me and my fat-ass on my bike with a now exploded tire. That bitch smirked. Smirked!

All I could do was slide myself off the bike, pretend I wasn’t completely humiliated and wheel the flat-tire bike home.

From that one incident came a deep rooted fear of flat tires.

Whenever my car warning light goes on saying the tires need air, I immediately get myself to the car dealer and have them do it. 

I refuse to ever pump air into a tire again. I’d rather walk or crawl than to suffer again the fear-inducing ego deflation I felt when I over pumped my tire those many years ago.

And that's my silly fear... my fear of flat... tires.