It’s true. Blondes do have more fun.

I have written about this experience before. But at that time I didn’t have photographic proof. This week Lisa sent me evidence that we really did this wacky thing.

Lisa is a natural blond and absolutely head-turning. She also knows how to flirt. She would slide her hand over a man’s sleeve and say, in a sexy voice, “This is the best looking shirt. Where did you ever find it? You are handsome no matter what, but especially in this shirt”

Here’s what kills me. The guys had no clue they were being played. They were putty in her well-manicured hands. I would watch this and think, “Not fair. If I were BLONDE, I would know how to flirt like that!” But I never could. I had some notion that any self-respecting man would see right through that nonsense. I kept right on believing that even after guys bought her one drink after another. Meanwhile, I stood on the sidelines, gaping.

So, in the early nineties, when Lisa and I were invited to go to Delaware to celebrate a friend’s 40th birthday, I told her, “I’ll be damned if I’m flying with you as a blond and getting ignored the entire weekend!” Lisa, always game for any crazy adventure, agreed to go to Carson Pirie Scott and buy wigs. I insisted she was absolutely NOT allowed to be a blond.

She drove her big fancy black Mercedes (with a CAR PHONE! in the console) to the Woodfield Mall. The wig department was on the second floor. Our budget? $100 bucks each. You could buy a lot of plastic hair for $100 bucks in the early 90’s.

We found the wigs, explained our needs and the wig woman said, “These will be perfect for you.” She continued, “But just don’t stand too close to any hot grills or your hair will melt.”

Travel day arrived. I put on a very short, very tight black skirt and tucked my red locks into my Barbie Bubble Cut blonde wig. Darling! Meanwhile, Lisa had been forbidden from wearing a skirt. She donned a pantsuit and topped it off with a dark brown bob.

We arrived at the airport and while we were awaiting boarding I noticed a gentleman wearing a pilot’s uniform. I approached him and asked, “Are you our pilot?”

But something extraordinary overcame me when I spoke. Suddenly I was talking in a breathy Marilyn Monroe little girl drawl. A crazed blonde demon had taken over my soul!

My pilot looked flustered and responded, “I am a pilot. I’m not flying today, just a passenger. And I’m divorced.”

Me, still channeling Marilyn, “Oh no. That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard!” At that point, Lisa came over, and in a new-found European accent, exclaimed, “You just ignore my little friend. She is a tiny bit slow!” Ha! My first experience with blonde profiling!

We boarded the plane, found our seats. Lisa was by the window. I had the middle. And some very nice normal middle-class housewife type was next to me on the aisle. We settled in, and suddenly my pilot sent us a Bloody Mary. Being a platinum blonde was working out nicely!

As we were approaching Philadelphia, I turned to my seatmate and, still channeling MM, asked, “Have you ever been to Philadelphia? It’s an amazing city. At first it seems really tiny. But as the airplane gets lower, it grows! By the time we’re on the ground you will see it’s actually quite huge!”

The poor woman looked mystified. Again, European Lisa professed my mental disability. How can blondes stand being treated that way? Clearly THIS blonde was bright.

After exiting the plane we stopped in the ladies to shove our hair back into our wig-hats. We were being picked up by Frank and didn’t want him to recognize us. Meanwhile Frank was looking high and low. This was in the days when you could still meet a plane. He finally stopped the flight crew to ask if they had seen a blonde and a redhead on the flight.

They responded, “No, but two women were wearing cheap wigs, and they were like people in a Woody Allen film.”

Lisa and I were still giggling about our prank that night when we climbed into our twin beds. I no longer have that plastic hair. No idea where it ended up, but if you see a phony Marilyn Monroe wandering around, swilling free Bloody Mary’s, odds are she’s wearing my Barbie Bubble cut hair!


I loathe yard work. The great news about condo living? NO YARD to mess with. There are some green spaces down below, but happily, we are strictly forbidden from digging around in them.

I do, however, enjoy playing with house plants. My years working at Exit on Main Street taught me lots about it. Spider plants were a big deal in those days. My interest in houseplants waned after having human babies. Prior to that, I was all about feeding, misting, clipping, and even talking to my little green children. They seemed to enjoy the attention, and, unlike the actual kids, rarely talked back.

Here, in our wee teeny 1465 square foot condo, there isn’t room for a greenhouse. The building across the way has one condo that transformed a bedroom into a greenhouse. That would be my ideal gardening option.

No heat. No sweat. No bugs. No sunburn.

My current plant children are five jades, one christmas cactus, one snake plant and one orchid. The orchid and largest jade plant belong to my neighbor who escaped Florida summer to go to their other home in New Hampshire.

When she brought her plants over I asked if I could trim them some. She gave me her blessing. I’ve had fun propagating bits and pieces from my four little plants and donating them to hers.

Here are my babies.

Propagating jade plants is fun and easy. Just cut off pieces, let them sit long enough to form a callous, then jam them into the soil along with bigger plants. I sent grandson, Tate, a bunch of jade leaves, now he has the beginnings of his own plant! Yay Tate
The tiny leaves are growing where I have cut off sections. Trimming forces the plant to branch. Jim came to the marriage with an enormous old jade that he babied for years, as well as several orchids. His interest in feeding and nurturing plants left me wondering if he was bisexual. Which woulda’ been okay, but he’s not. I know this because I had my excellent therapist, Robin, check him out.
Poor long-suffering Jim.

You’ll notice the plant above has four pencil lines on the pot. I rotate these kids. Each one gets a week in the living room window before being banished to my chippy old office desk, which in a past life was a dining table. The desk ones live in an old wooden toolbox my husband brought to the marriage.

This girl was recently put into this larger pot. My former neighbor, Lynda, started her for me several years ago.. She blooms every November. Half pink, half white. I clip her regularly and she eagerly branches.

The succulents get fed a special cactus/succulent food every couple of weeks. This will only happen once more before winter. Then they have to starve. (I should try that…)

Jim teases me because Saturday is my favorite day. It’s “water the succulents” day! I’m trying not to pinch and snip at these for a few weeks. It takes huge self-discipline. Jim’s favorite day is Sunday when he watches Meet the Press and Face the Nation. I need to leave the room for those shows. Some of the realities of American politics are hard for me to stomach.

This photo will give you an idea of where my political heart lies.

For more fascinating glimpses of my past gardening life, click on the links below. in a new tab) in a new tab)

First Tooth Fairy Visit!

Tate, our darling grandson, lost his very first tooth this week. On a banana. Which is hardly a jaw-breaker. That wee baby tooth must have been very loose.

How much did the tooth fairy bring when you were a kid? I remember a handful of change. Perhaps on a really good, clean, no cavities tooth maybe fifty cents?

Dig this!

Five dollars! My gosh, now that I know the fairy has raised her rates I intend to start yanking my teeth out on a regular basis. Mine are vintage teeth. That should be worth enormous money.

After I pull all of mine, I’ll start on Jim’s. Yes, we’ll be eating applesauce in our dotage. But we’ll be able to afford really GOOD applesauce.

As a “Happy-first-tooth-loss” gift we sent him “Red Coat”, the plaque disclosing tablets. They turn your teeth pink and reveal any places you’ve missed brushing. Mo said he’s never been more excited to scrub his pearly whites! Pink tongue, clean teeth!

Trump Tests Positive

When you play with fire, you get burned. Foolishly, Donald Trump has played with corona-fire since the pandemic began. I suppose it was inevitable he would contract the virus.

My daughter, a Chicago Covid19 unit nurse, is not a Trump fan. Yet she has seen enough COVID death to unequivocally state she wouldn’t wish it on anyone…even Donald Trump.

I have mixed feelings about that. Trump has blood on his hands. Blood from the many cruel choices he has made. The travesty at the border is shameful enough to indict him. Children separated from their families? Unconscionable. That reprehensible situation never would have occurred if Trump hadn’t enforced his ugly policies.

Further, how many lives could have been saved if Trump had been willing to follow the science and encourage his base to do so as well? Perhaps Trump’s legion of supporters will finally realize PPE is critical to staying healthy and keeping those in their circle well.

Wear the masks. Social distance. Wash your hands. Don’t play with fire.

And pray that those unwilling to be cautious will finally sit up and take notice.

(Are you listening, Governor DeSantis?)