Innergiggler's Blog

Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

I can’t speak for you – but in this head above my shoulders – there is an enormous Committee planted there by some practical joker from another universe.   This Committee is comprised of voices from any possible representative opinion and they speak very loudly to me – kind of like Nancy Grace & Rush Limbaugh, Chris Matthews, Judge Judy and/or all political pundits or reoccurring celebrities attempting to make their point.

The job of this committee is to keep me guessing at all times.  For example:

I’ve decided to go that party I’ve been invited to on Saturday night.  In the midst of choosing what I’ll wear – Nancy Grace will scream:

“You don’t want to go to that party friend.  They’ll be serving shrimp and you’re allergic to seafood; you will go into anaphylactic shock which could lead to diarrhea, heart palpitations, closing of airwaves and on a very bad night – death.”

Rush:  “You have to go to that party you idiot, the host bought you that beautiful scarf last Christmas.”

Judge Judy:  “Do you really think you can fit into the purple dress?  Do you remember what you’ve just eaten for dinner?  Case closed.

Chris:  Heh, heh!  Just wear the black pants – they have an elastic waist and will fit you even after you’ve eaten a bus.  Who cares how it looks?  Just bring a box of candy and no one will notice.”

And just when the voices become manageable – the message changes.

Heidi Klum:  “Oh just go to the damn party – get there fashionably late and leave early.  Remember, sometimes you’re in and for the next party – you’re out!”

Then there’s Seal:  “I wanna fly like an eagle, let that spirit carry me…I wanna fly…”

Some professionals might diagnose this as schizophrenia, but that would be primarily to fill out prescription pads and make brownie points with their drug companies. 

I’ve learned to quiet these voices by:

  1.  Eating brownies
  2.  Watching Yankee games
  3.  Annoying my husband
  4.  Going to the gym – not doing anything – but just being headed in that direction helps.
  5. Phoning a friend.Here’s hoping your voices are quieter than mine.
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The sweet pungence of freshly cut grass triggers a bright image of my parents’ home on Long Island.  I’m 15 again; it’s a brilliantly hot Saturday afternoon in August and the sun shines directly on our backyard.  My watch reads 2:00p – right on time; his pick-up truck pulls into the driveway.   Anticipation forces my heart to beat a little faster. 

From my second story bedroom window I watch him set up the manual lawnmower as the sun shimmers on this shirtless wonder.   I study his red crew cut which blends perfectly with his tan and deeply freckled body.  Slightly more than twice my age – he’s a genius with that simple machine, erasing any grass growing above two inches.  Like broken hearts the grass is strewn about the yard with little resistance.  And in concert with his strength, those muscles punctuate every movement – rippling in a circular and hypnotic motion as his brawny, burly arms force the machine to cut – slice – manipulate each blade of grass to his guided direction.  His dominance increases and I can hear him grunting, “Ahhh, ahhh, ahhh!”  Does he know I’m listening?  Is he calling me?

My 15 year old libido is strongly aroused now and I want him to…to…?  At 15 I was somewhat confused as to ‘how and what I wanted him to do’ infusing the images of excerpts from “Peyton Place”, “79 Park Avenue” and other books my mom had hidden in the basement.  Through all this, there is one constant – I smell Hank.

Closing my eyes for a moment I now allow his sweat-drenched arms to surround and cloak me.  The strength of his hold and the nakedness of his slightly hairy chest create a yearning below my waist.  Its unfamiliar feeling travels throughout my body all the way to my toes and fingertips.  The perfume of his moisture is intoxicating. 

A ringing phone calls out but I am too mesmerized by the Hank Show so I let the interruption play itself out.  I won’t allow any intrusion – especially because it’s time for him to move to the next level – raking.   I hold my breath as he bends and scrapes, and smile at the slight dip of his jeans below the top of his BVDs’s.  I’m almost frightened by the imagined machinery inside his pants but not enough to turn away.   With raking of the back area complete, he moves around to the front of the house.  Now I try summoning the courage to run out and offer him water.  Some days he reaches out for the glass – on others he turns me down.  Either way his white teeth flash gratitude.  And I am closer to – smelling Hank.

Eventually, as I made the transition away from home off to college, friends and relatives asked me what I’d miss most about home.  I never told anyone – I was gonna miss smelling Hank.

There was an industry advertisement three weeks ago  CASTING FOR WHEEL OF FORTUNE!  Seeking contestants living in Southern California who have upbeat personalities and are good at game shows.   Send us an email with the following information.  I jumped on it.  

Name:  Linda Lichtman

So. CA town where you reside:   Westchester

Why do you think you’d be a good contestant?    I’m upbeat, quick on my feet, warm and friendly – and love The Wheel!

Tell us a little about yourself:  Retired comic, former biz owner, writer, Internet Radio Show Host – and proud to say I got married for the first time at 55.

Phone Number:  yeah!

Send recent photo:  Done!

————————————————–

I then pressed SEND for my submission –  and was so excited I could barely breathe.  Yes, Wheel of Fortune!  I then sent the ad to four friends who might be interested.  Imagine being on the show with any two of them.  Yes!!!

I started wondering how I’d respond on the set as Vanna turned the letters around.  It’s different once you’re actually there.  Nerves, excitement could color the experience and perhaps detract from my concentration.  I’m gonna start deep breathing again. 

What if my nerves didn’t take over and I was the winning contestant?  Then I could qualify for the jackpot round.  There I am, hugging Pat Sajak, cause he wants me to win.  It’s good for the show.  Yeah!  I’m so happy I rush over and hug Vanna White.  She seems sweet.

Two weeks letter – reality check!  Two of my four friends received phone calls for interviews, the other two didn’t; I didn’t.    Hmmm!

So last night Rob and I watched WOF.   Still thinking I’ve got a shot at an interview, my husband who I admitted marrying when I was 55 – pokes me and addresses one annoying fact, “They never have Seniors on WOF!”   No!  They only have people who can say, “Yes Pat, I’m married to my wonderful soul mate, Roger, we have three astounding children” – she neglected to add the kids are usually under 10.  We never hear “I was married to a fabulous guy who died three years ago.”  No widows!  We never hear “I’ve got three great kids, the oldest is a lawyer and the other two are plumbers… ” OR “I’m a divorcee with three great kids.”  No one gets divorced on WOF.   Well, except for Pat and Vanna.  No Seniors.  Except for Pat – who turns 65 on October 26th;  Vanna is only 54. 

Apparently the producers don’t think Seniors look so sexy in HD – even after the surgery.  But come on have you seen some of the “younger” contestants?  No beauty queens or kings here. 

Also, older folks may have all kinds of sad stories about dead siblings, sick children, losing their homes, their limbs, their teeth.  WOF only want young, young, young people with all their teeth – young and representative of the pre-Boomer demographic.  That’s just wrong.

By the way, of the two friends who received interviews – one is 35, the other a very youthful 42, married and both have young, healthy children.  Of the who weren’t contacted:  one beauty is 60 – OMG!  Don’t put the old farts on TV – whose gonna watch them?  And the other friend is 54 and divorced – like Vanna.

If you’re a non-demographic living in Southern CA – call WOF and complain.  Even if you’re a perfect demographic – and don’t live in Southern CA – email them and complain.

The door slammed behind me.  I just screwed up yet another audition.  Cold readings in front of strangers is difficult enough – but shaky, nervous fingers will drop script pages  –  bending down to retrieve said pages eyeglasses will fall to the floor  – and be not so quickly recovered  – they’re back on my nose.  I shift my head briskly left for character reaction – then watch those specs fly across  the room and zap the Casting Director in her right breast – a surefire audition for the crapper.

On more than one occasion my acting teacher had suggested I get fitted for contact lenses.

“No.  Feh!  I can’t stand the thought of anything touching my eyeballs.  Only the lids, and maybe a floating lash or two are allowed to fondle my peepers.  Never will my pupils be exposed to chlorine or any other substance under water.  I promise you’ll hear me bark louder than a pit bull when forced to have that puff in the eye glaucoma test.  I feel faint already.   These are the rules.

My WoodyAllen-esque teacher – insert brown hair and a lower pitched voice – jumped on me in class one night:

“Afraid?  You wanna talk afraid?  I’m the biggest chicken in the world.  I won’t put a thermometer in my mouth for fear of mercury poisoning.  When anyone mentions Auschwitz – I can smell enough gas to overcook a Thanksgiving turkey for 200.  Don’t talk to me about fear.  Yet I wear contacts.”

Another year passed by – as did more auditions where I couldn’t read the pages without a small catastrophe.  Finally – one morning, I made an appointment with an optometrist about fifteen minutes from my house in Mar Vista, Ca. – not wanting to be too far from my toilet.

I arrived early so that I could deep breathe into a paper bag which would minimize  hyperventilation and keep my thoughts occupied so I wouldn’t be tempted to run.  Moving at a speed of .04 miles an hour, I approached the optometrist for Phase I, eye measurement.  My mouth was moving exceedingly fast – as I asked questions about possible catastrophes – like how many people went blind as a result of wearing contacts, etc.  The tall, slightly built, bald-headed, stooped over guy suggested the results would be more accurate if I’d close my mouth for five minutes.   The anxiety pushed masses of air out of my lungs – I was afraid to stop talking for fear of suffocation. 

Process completed, a lovely, dark, tall and slender woman, about 22, wearing a big smile approached me.

“I may be young but I’ve got lots of experience teaching people exactly how to do this; and I’ve been wearing lenses for years.  Now, take a deep breath and slowly let it out so we can stop your hands from tremoring.  Good.”

After just 42 attempts to adhere this clear, round, soft piece of plastic to my left eye – I was wearing a contact lens.  Within another twenty minutes – my right eye was also lensed.  Me!  The Queen of Anxiety! I grabbed my cell phone and speed dialed my mom.  Within seconds you could hear my voice screeching throughout the store:

“Ma – guess what I’ve got in my eyes?  No!  Yuch!  Stop!” I paused while she screeched that I rush to the ER.  “No, it’s good.  Ma, no hands – no glasses – I’m wearing contact lenses.”

Two days later my agent called:

“You’ve got an audition for an AT&T commercial.  Book it!” 

Beyond excited – I practically flew to West Hollywood – hurriedly parked – okay a little zig-zagged – jumped out of the car – ran up the stairs and searched the Commercial Board which directs actors to the correct auditioning rooms.  Campbell’s Soup #1, Time Warner, #2, Toyota, #3, AT&T, #4.  I signed in – submitted my picture/resume combo, then sat and waited to hear my name called.  I knew this baby was all mine.

Confidently I entered the audition room – smiled at the casting folks, watched as they smiled right back – displaying their lunch-stuffed corporate mouths. 
“Give her the glasses.”  They asked me to don a pair of non-prescriptive glasses indicating I was a middle-aged woman.  Being slightly over 50 at the time, I believe the Casting Directors needed the glasses. 

I didn’t get that job – but ultimately I didn’t care.  Now I get to choose every single day what I’ll use to see the world a little more clearly.

Facing our own truth is usually a daunting and uncomfortable experience.  People prefer watching what they perceive as “truth” in others – i.e.  reality TV – even though there’s barely any reality in these shows.  Rather the “players” are manipulated by producers and directors for the purpose of entertainment.  Who wants to look in the mirror?  Really.  Okay, unless you’ve just lost 20 lbs.

I’m not interested in or compelled by any of the “housewives” silliness, most talk shows, make-over or celebrity’s lives behind the scenes – although I guiltily have given some time to the Kardashians.  Uninvolved, empty, lonely evenings can do that.  Watching the sisters interact often triggered  jealously within me – yes – and I became drenched with envy over their innate “sisterness”  – the self-contained sorority of blood that stays with them through eternity.  I’ve always wanted a sister – begged mom as dad hauled her big belly off to the hospital – “Please mom, please bring home a little sister for me to play with…please.”   Now a good look in that mirror.

Disappointment with the boy child ended soon after he arrived and for about 20 years.   Unfortunately sibling rivalry was accidentally encouraged by parents who knew nothing about child-rearing – so there were always “issues” between he and I.  We were taught “he” was the pretty/ or good-looking one and “I” was the smart one.  He never realized he was smart and I never felt pretty until later on in life.

The rivalry eventually re-ignited when bro married “the loving but clueless woman.”  Both she and her “ilk” would have been an enormous snooze fest of a reality show.  Father works hard to support his four-piece family, mother shops, father works harder, mother shops with more verve, father increases drug and alcohol usage, mother is lost in space between Nordstrom racks – eventually the brother body is totally ravaged by cancer dies, he passes away… and she continues shopping. 

I’ll never know why but from the beginning she disliked me – and you can see how I respectfully I viewed her.  Perhaps fortunately I was left out of their lives.  Resentment?  Yes.  Truth?  Was I the perfect sister-in-law?  No.  I did some crappy things.  The mirror is telling me I’m imperfect.

 This blog is about truth!

The truth is there are many events in my past which are eclipsing my Inner Giggler – my mission here is to unleash them with some dignity and humor and to encourage you to do the same.

Time to work on The Inner Giggler Radio Show which airs Sundays @7p pst/ 10p est.  The call in number to listen or talk is 661- 449-1449.  The computer link for listening is

http://BlogTalkRadio.com/InnerGiggler

 

 

Are you kidding?  If I had the solution I’d be so rich and famous I wouldn’t have time for blogging.  So let’s work this out:

I’ve got over 60 years of experience searching for a solution.  I used to blame it on mom for requiring I consume cottage cheese and prunes for lunch daily throughout the 1st and 2nd grades – miraculous I made it to the 3rd grade without killing someone – like my mother. 

Fortunately wisdom has accompanied aging.  I realize this is my lifetime challenge – to search for harmony between my mind and my body.  Think Linda, think! 

Previously, navigation through a weight program was often determined by what was on the Best Seller List.  There was one weight loss scheme  wayyyy back in college, where we could eat endless hamburgers and french fries – but no buns. (“Calories Don’t Count?”)  I gained nine pounds.

Then Dr. Stillman suggested I suck on a sink’s spout in the amount of 64 oz. per day, and eat nothing but protein with my protein –  honey in no time at all, pound after pound of flesh melted away.  I was gawgeous!  Apparently he was on to something, I’m still sucking on the spickets…bitching and moaning though it defintely makes a difference. 

Oh the 70s – “Dr. Atkins’ Diet Revolution” aligned itself with the Sexual Revolution.  His plan screamed STOP! to my expanding body and converted my frame into that svelte and sexy vessel just in time for me to spin my way into disco fever.  The addition of exercise was involuntary upon hearing that blaring orgasmic beat.  “Do it baby, do it, yes, yes, yes you will, more and more! YOWWWWWWZA!”

Before I turned all the way around, my dancing days were done because I entered a relationship with Two Left Feet, Frank.  Halt on the spinning and dieting.  Pizza, chocolate and Chinese entered my mouth so fast it forced my head to snap back against the wall as I watched my waistline amplify in geometric progressions.  Agony ensued as I waited and chewed toward that moment of my physical explosion.  As I was about to POP!  a friend of a friend helped me find god and become Anonymous.  No diet – I swear!  Based on a very sound, organized system of principles, god sucked ninety pounds and the guy from my frame.  It was effortless and satisfying.  Unfortunately, with my anonymity – I also gave up some of my identity –  not a requirement here, but somehow I disappeared along with my shrinking waistline.  That was just my experience.  I began to miss myself – which brings me to today.

Now I’ve decided instead of “dueling the futile war on weight” I’m gonna accept that I’ve been kind of like the Middle East and work on a PEACE AGREEMENT!   New plan begins tomorrow.

“You looking at me?”

She moves closer to the mirror.  Shades of Travis Bickel are reflecting back.

“You looking at me?”

The answer is yes.  I’m looking at me. 

Yikes!   I could look a little healthier, happier, thinner, smaller, slimmer – not so chunky!   I could be smiling right now if my bra’s underwire wasn’t digging into my rib cage, or if the zipper on my jeans wasn’t ripping me a new belly button.  I could be more joyous but can’t feel it under these conditions.

I swore to myself this wouldn’t happen again.  I promised “me” that the gym wasn’t going to be a distant memory and that I’d never move back into Pepperidge Farm, ever.  But ya know, when the sky is blue and my life seems momentarily perfect, unbearable, painful, filled with joy – at any of those moments of emotional and mental distraction  – that calls for a cookie, candy bar, ice cream or anything that will sustain my foggabilitty! 

And absolutely no one can tap me on the shoulder and ask, “Whattcha doing cause you’re growing wider!”  Try it and you’ll never celebrate another birthday.

“I’m NOT guilty your Honor, that nosy bitch  – formerly known as hussy – was the guilty  one – she crossed the ‘weight’ line!”  No jury in this country would convict me.  Certainly not in Los Angeles.

Will I find a solution?  Tune in tomorrow!!!