Read it and WEEP!

You think you’ve got troubles?  Ha!  I guaran-damn-tee that mine are far, far worse than yours.  Seriously. Between you and me, I’m surprised that somebody hasn’t started a foundation to raise awareness for my affliction.  C’mon folks, this is candlelight vigil, ribbon wearing, Barry Manilow writing a special song just for it, makeshift memorial consisting of piles of flowers and teddy bears getting soaked in the rain pathetic.

Just what is paining me so?  A particularly aggressive recurrence of Fatonmythigh disease and it is spreading.  My butt, stomach, even my arms are afflicted. It wouldn’t be so bad, but my fall clothes are too tight and now that the weather is turning cooler, I don’t have any choice than to pull my head out of the feed bag and face the truth.

The straw that broke the camel’s back occurred a couple of weeks ago.  I couldn’t fit into the dress I wanted to wear to emcee this year’s Furry Fort Thomas Dog Show.  It is an XL Tommy Hilfiger shirtwaist dress with a tiny Basset Hound print that I ordered especially for the event.  The moment I slipped it over my head, I knew there was trouble when I couldn’t pull it down over my bosoms.  I took it off and checked the tag.  Maybe they sent me the wrong size.  Nope, it clearly said extra large.

Ever resourceful (and still in denial), I rummaged through my lingerie drawer and pulled out my black and red spandex and lace Queen Latifah brand “All-in-One.” Surely, that would smooth me out in all the right spots. Wrong.  Running out of time (Tom and Nosey were in the car beeping the horn, ready to leave the house), I concluded that desperate times called for desperate measures, so I quickly undressed and started from scratch. It was time to pull out my secret weapon, the one that never failed: L’eggs Sheer Energy control top pantyhose in size B. I sat on the bed and smoothed them up my legs then, realized that they weren’t going to stretch all the way to my waist.  I pulled this way and that, tugging and yanking until I poked a hole in the behind with one of my fingernails.  It snapped back over my all-too ample flesh and a small, pink blob of my skin poked through the hole like the Hen and Chicks planter on our front porch.

That was going to have to do, I surmised, going into triage mode.  If I wore my extra-firm “Shaper” panties over the pantyhose, that would keep them from rolling down.  So, I added those.  While rummaging around for them, I’d come across a one piece, long-legged Spanx “Body Smoother,” that my Mother had given me awhile back.  It was a wild idea, but, I wondered if this might not just be the thing to smooth the lumps coming from the top and bottom of the panties.  Shimmying into the one piece was kind of difficult and I was getting a little sweaty, so I dusted my bare skin with a little Lady Anti-Monkey Butt powder.  

Checking myself in the mirror, I noticed that my upper back was protruding a bit.  Who knew you could have cleavage on your back?  What to do?  Well, the black and red lace Queen Latifah “All-in-One” that I’d started with had a band on the back that was supposed to take care of that, so I put that on, too.

Guess what?  The dress was still too tight and I had no choice than to wear  a stretchy sweater dress from the fat end of my closet.  There was no time to take off all those layers of underwear and they were so tight that I could hardly bend my torso enough to sit down in the car for the ride to the library.

But this wasn’t the end of my predicament. When the dog show was over and I went into the library to use the ladies room, I found out what real trouble was.  Of that, I will only say, thank God I had a pair of nail clippers in my handbag.

After that episode, I realized that I didn’t have many options.  I was going to have to decide: Invest in a new wardrobe, find a seamstress to stitch the outfits I already owned together, start running around naked or go on a diet.

Guess which one I chose?

P.S.  I started today.  Wish me luck.

Boo-Boo Chic!

The Bandages I Choose to Cover My Wounds...


The Vicious, Blood-Thirsty Beast Who Started It!
Sheldon the Hamster
He Has "Rules" and We Must Obey or Suffer the Consequences.



Bottom line is this: I was viciously attacked and severely hamster-bitten while trying to break up a fight between Sheldon and Leonard yesterday. It was my own fault, I put Leonard into Sheldon's cage for just a few minutes while I cleaned out the other one. But, sometimes even good pet owners do dumb things. The reason they live in separate quarters is because Sheldon bit Leonard on the left ball last winter. How could I have forgotten that they are more territorial than the troops fighting over the Gaza Strip???

I turned my back for a moment to fill Leonard's water bottle and heard a terrible squabble. They were locked in a fierce battle. In retrospect, I could have taken a moment to put on gloves; but in my panic to keep Leonard from squeaking soprano for the rest of his life, reached in and grabbed them to pull them apart. That's when Leonard sunk his teeth into the bendy part of my right index finger and held on to dear life. Sheldon was attached to Leonard and I couldn't shake them off!

This was witnessed by Tom, with whom I was on the telephone. He said, "I think I'd better let you go."

I quickly separated them from my finger and each other and tossed them as gently as I could into their own cages. Blood dripped from my finger. I cleaned it up and stopped the bleeding, applied Neosporin and actually stopped for a moment, purusing my adhesive bandage selection. I have ones with images of cupcakes, monkeys with red fez caps, Dora the Explorer and kiss prints. Hmmm, I couldn't decide.

If what style bandage I am going to wear is my worst problem in life, then the injury must not have been that bad. But, when did Band-Aids get that fancy? When I was a kid, the only kind you could get were some sort of peachy-tone. Nowadays kids (and some adults, like me) have a choice.

Who knew that a boo-boo could turn into an opportunity to express yourself?

Martha's Christmas a Nightmare!

Have you noticed that Thanksgiving is next week? How can that be? The Christmas holidays have been in full swing since, what…Riverfest? Goodness, I’ve got to get to Kroger. How the heck am I going to thaw a turkey out in time?

The thing I can’t stand about Christmas is it starts earlier an earlier every year. Frank Marzullo will be reporting a heat wave one minute, then they’ll cut to a commercial for a holiday sale.

But, once it starts, it never seems to end. My great-grandmother would point out houses that had not taken down their Christmas decorations after the first of the year. “That is so trashy…”, she would murmur, shaking her head. “Why don’t they just hang hearts so they’ll be ready for Valentine’s Day?” Nowadays I think it would take Dr. Kevorkian to pull the plug on the lights.

What would my great-grandmother say if she had lived to see this? The way things are going, it’s just a matter of time before retailers start keeping Christmas trees up all year long. In the spring they could hang little bunnies and when summer rolls around, tiny firecrackers. How freaking festive can you get?

The only problem with Christmas starting so early is it give me more time to worry about what presents I’m going to give, plan the meals, and fret about decorating the house. Martha Stewart I’m not.

Oh, that Martha Stewart. She and I have such a love/hate thing going. I make fun of her all the time, yet weekday mornings, I’m right there in front of the TV watching her show and clipping ideas out of her magazine.

She must laugh her perfectly coiffed blonde head silly thinking up all these inane projects. I can just hear her giggling to her minions, “What do you say this week I show people how to hollow out fruits and vegetables, poke little holes in them with a power drill, then slip them over Christmas tree lights? Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

Right Martha. “A good thing.” “A good thing” to do if you want to rust up your husband’s power tools. That’s not to mention the great big fight you’ll get into when he finds out just before the family shows up for Thanksgiving dinner. It’ll also be “a good thing” to explain to the insurance company after the juice shorts out the non-UL approved lights you bought for 99 cents at the dollar store and burn the house down.

Every time, I swear I’m not getting sucked in again. But, soon enough, morning rolls around and her program is on and I’m sitting there in my nightie, a great big mug of Lookout Joe coffee in one hand and a pencil in the other to write down the ingredients for Martha’s latest “good thing.”

Surely I’m not the only one with this problem. There must be others caught up in Martha’s wicked little game. We don’t realize how truly bizarre those little crafts are when we’re stricken with holiday fever. All we know is we must create the perfect embodiment of holiday spirit with our own two hands! Our family and friends deserve the best. Bring the outdoors inside for Christmas! Deck the halls!

The next thing you know you’re dragging in bushel baskets full of greenery, pinecones, twigs and brightly colored berries. Only problem is, at midnight on Christmas Eve, you’re not going to be at church with the family. No, you’ll be making a $1,200 emergency visit to the emergency veterinary clinic because the dog ate the centerpiece.

Well, it doesn’t take a vet to tell me that hindsight is 20/20. The day after New Year’s I’ll be down on my hands and knees, trying to pick the outdoors out of the new wall-to-wall carpet we don’t have to pay Buddy’s Carpet for until April of next year. I’d use the vacuum cleaner, but the motor burned up when my husband used it on a boxful of spilled ornament hangers.

I had a dream last night. It was just like that Twilight Zone episode where there is a nuclear annihilation and the only person left is an anti-social bookworm who has never had enough time to read. Then he breaks his glasses. Remember? Oh, the irony…

In my dream, Martha Stewart was the only person left. She was really happy because she was finally going to have enough time to make all the crafts she wanted. Then she broke her glue gun. It was a “good thing.”

Ho, ho, ho…Merry Christmas!

And Yet It Really Happened

All you unmarried girls gather ‘round the cocktail shaker. Because Aunt Marsie is about to give you some advice that may save you a lot of heartache.

Remember your mother warning you to always wear nice underwear because you never knew when you might be in an accident? Well, I’m here to take that one well-shod step further. If you are single and looking (so to speak), don’t try to get away with going anywhere without looking your absolute best.

Why? Allow me, (in the charmingly accented and immortal words of Ricky Ricardo) to ‘splain how I know.

Once upon a time before I was a happily married lady, my professional association held its annual Christmas party at the Brown Hotel in Louisville, Kentucky. The grand ballroom was strung up with thousands of tiny lights, there was champagne, gourmet food, a full orchestra…it was a romantic night and (oh waaah is me), I was there all alone.

But always hopeful, I decided that this was an opportunity to go on the prowl. Hey, you never know who you might meet, you know? I had just lost twenty some odd pounds and invested in a cute new little black dress. Time to try it out. I was perfumed and powdered beyond reason. This little girl was so ripe she was about ready to fall off the proverbial tree.

Yada, yada, yada… Well, the party was a bust. I did lots of good networking and handed out some business cards, but there were nothing but couples in attendance. Darn them for being so happy and together during the holidays, I enviously whimpered to myself while getting on the elevator to leave.

So, dejectedly I went back to my room to take a nice long bubble bath and wash my hair. After soaking for a half hour or so, I dried off and put on a flannel nightgown. (Which I remember very clearly because it had red and white candy-cane stripes, a red-nosed reindeer print and a wide, eyelet lace ruffled trim.) Thirsty, I decided to have a Diet Coke and realized that I had drank my last one. The honor bar in the room didn’t have any left and as it was after 2 a.m., room service was closed. It was one of those times when nothing but a Diet Coke will do.

There was a fully stocked concierge room down the hallway. They had a whole refrigerator stocked with soft drinks. I didn’t want to go through the bother of getting dressed just to run down the hall. I mean, it was the middle of the night. Nobody was going to see me, right? So, I came up with a plan.

I put on the panty hose I was going to wear the next day and slipped on my high heels. Then I put my winter coat on over that. As a final touch, I pulled my nightgown hem up so it couldn’t be seen.

Now as for my hair, I’ll admit that it looked like I was wearing a tumbleweed on top of my head, but it was very clean. And there was the small matter of the green Queen Helene Mint Julep Masque I‘d just applied all over my face. But it was just beginning to harden and hey, nobody was going to see me, right? I’d be up that hallway in a flash, grab those Diet Cokes, trot back and be done with it.

Cracking the door open, I peeked up and down the hall. The coast was clear! I strode confidently to the concierge room. The lights were out except for what appeared to be a nightlight in the kitchen. I entered.

“Why there you are. I’ve been waiting for you…”, the most gorgeous man I’d ever or have ever seen in my life intoned. He was wearing a black tuxedo, his tie undone. By the refrigerator light he looked like a cross between Pierce Brosnan and George Clooney. Pheromones surrounded him like an aura.

“You’re late,” he scolded flirtatiously, tapping the face of his watch. “Thought you could sneak down here in the middle of the night without me seeing, didn’t you?” he continued, a straight-white-toothed-dimpled smile playing about his lips.

My single life flashed before my eyes. All the suffering I’d done in the name of vanity had been for naught! There was no wedding ring on his left hand, so chances were that I’d blown it. My one big opportunity to “meet cute” as they say and my tail caught in a trap of my very own making.

What had I been wasting my time and money on if not to get ready for this very warbly-sung Whitney Houston-ish one moment in time? I was marooned, left high and dry without a spec of dewy-finish foundation, lash-lengthening, body-building mascaras and moisturizing lipstick.

All that beauty enhancing stuff had gotten me nowhere! Here I was standing in front of a man who looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a romance novel and me looking a bit like road kill with a green facial mask that had just cracked. They never covered this in Cosmopolitan magazine.

For once, I was speechless.

He handed me my soft drink. I turned to leave. Just then, to add insult to injury my nightgown unfurled under my coat and the hem hit the floor.

Our eyes met. At that moment I truly didn’t know (as my great-grandmother used to say), whether to pee or go blind. Finally he spoke.

“Has anyone ever told you how lovely a flannel nightgown looks with stockings and heels?” he asked, mischievously raising an eyebrow.

I never saw him again even though I made sure I looked like Angelina Jolie at check-out time. But, such is life. He might not have looked so hot himself in the light of day. (At least that’s what I keep telling myself.) But I never got to find out. And that, single ladies is why you should listen to your Aunt Marsie and never go out in public without looking your best, no matter how thirsty you are.

　　
Marsie Hall Newbold, a.k.a. Mrs. Thomas M. Newbold, lives in wedded bliss, using the skills that earned her the “Betty Crocker Homemaker of Tomorrow” award in her Senior year at Highlands High School. When she is not doting over her husband of 17 years, the deliciously nerdy Professor Tom or caring for hearth and home, she works as a publicist getting positive press for her clients. She can be reached at: marsolete@insightbb.com.
　

Paybacks

　
Yesterday was the deadline for potential candidates to file paperwork with the Secretary of State in order to be eligible to run for political office in Kentucky’s 2010 primary elections. Why does this concern me, you ask?

Well, because like an elephant, I never forget and in my opinion, political campaigns boil down to popularity contests, plain and simple. And everybody who took Poly-Sci 101 knows that all politics is local. Now, I’m middle-aged by anyone’s standards and most of the time I act like the grown up I “officially” am. But, deep down, in the darkest recesses of my heart, I am still the little kid who could never do a cartwheel and still wince at the thought of my old grade-school nickname, “Chuckwagon.”

It started about twenty years ago. Several people who were downright mean to me “back in the day” announced that they were running for political office. Now, I am a registered, sometimes rabid, life-long straight party line type of person, but I cannot bring myself to press those little levers in the voting booth with their names next to them, even when their beliefs match up with mine. There comes a point when even the most socially-conscious among us has to draw the line. Truth is, I’d rather vote for Catwoman or Lex Luther.

Why would I want to do something nice like blow my ballot on someone who stole my boyfriend back in 3rd grade or badmouthed my performance in a junior high play? By golly, that guy didn’t ask me to the junior prom so I’ll show him!

I haven’t spoken to these people in years, but I’m better at nursing a grudge than that whacko Octopulet Mom is with her babies. If they were mean then, why would they be nice now?

My ever-reasonable husband, the professor, rolled his eyes when I told him this and asked, “Don’t you think that people are capable of changing? Are you the same person you were when you were a child?”

Of course, I’m not, but then again, that’s me and I’m perfect, I secretly think; my inner child holding her breath until she turns blue.

So, every time an election looms, just like clockwork my former nemesis’ ring my doorbell, hawking votes. And I hide just like I do when the missionaries come to call. I’d get away with it, but our dog gets so excited when somebody is standing on the porch he practically tears the curtains down, revealing me crouched in a fetal position behind the recliner.

I’m no pundit, but here’s my strategy for politicians who need to scare up a few extra votes:

Go back through your old high school annuals, camp photos, etc. and pick out the people you didn’t have time for, didn’t like or even looked at cross-eyed. Find them and try to convince them that you actually did grow up to be a decent human being.

Otherwise, the next time you go out ringing doorbells looking for votes, you never know who’ll be laughing when they peek out their windows and see that you stepped in a pile of doggie-doo on the way off of their property.

But, God help me if someday I’m ever on death row, wrongly accused and need a pardon from the Governor. The telephone in the death chamber will never ring.

Don’t you just hate paybacks?

When she's not busy trying to convince people that "the more you complain the longer God lets you live," Marsie Hall Newbold works as a publicist getting positive press for her clients. She can be reached at: marsolete@insightbb.com

Ball Fringe Makes Me Cringe!

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls; gather ‘round and listen to what I have to say. There is no way I can be embarrassed anymore. Really and truly. I’ve come to realize that when the end comes it will be from something stupid that I’ve done to myself and I’ll be found upside down with my dress over my head, showing my butt. Oh, and my pantyhose will probably be run for good measure.

But don’t feel sorry for me. It’s freeing in a way. Once you’ve been humiliated in as many ways and as many times as I have it makes you numb. Of course, I’m a big old drama queen, so my idea of disgrace isn’t on par with Tiger Woods' sexual shenanigans, public officials who get caught with their hands in the til live on "20/20" or holier-than-thou ministers who are “exposed” in front of their congregations as closet drag queens.

It started way back in childhood, as early as grade school. I was a pudgy kid and the class bullies had given me with the nickname of “Chuckwagon” to celebrate that fact. If they were feeling particularly generous, they called me “Chuck.”

My mother and great-grandmother were big fans of Ruth Lyon’s ''50-50 Club" show on Channel 5, so pretty much whatever Ruth was touting was what they wanted to do. (I come from a long line of women who are easily manipulated by the media.) Well, Ruth was giving away free dressmaking patterns for little girls if you’d send in “x” number of box tops and they decided that Marsie Anne must have one.

To make a very long story short, they made me a dress. This was back in the mid-60’s when Harvest Gold and Avocado Green were the “in” colors. The pattern was vertical stripes and it was a straight, sleeveless shift. The piece de resistance was gold ball fringe on the hem. It looked about as bad as the Swan-thing that Bjork wore to the Academy Awards a few years ago. Even at the age of nine I knew ugly when I saw it.

And, of course, they insisted that I wear it to school. I could see where this was going. All hope was lost. My classmates were going to have a field day with this one. I begged, I pleaded, I even cried, but they would not be denied. Mother was President of the P.T.A. and she wanted all the teachers and lunchroom ladies at Robert D. Johnson Elementary School in Fort Thomas, Kentucky to see her handiwork.

So, I set out for school. Mom had even specially styled my hair for the occasion, pulling it on the top of my head and forming a little bun with a meshy-donut looking form. This was held together with about a hundred bobby pins, two little combs and a half can of Final Net hairspray.

As soon as I got out of the car in front of school I knew I was buttered toast. All eyes locked upon me and a tidal wave of laughter crashed over the schoolyard. I made a run for the front door, the mob gaining on me like a pack of hounds. Once inside, I dove into the safety of the coat closet we all locked ourselves in after getting a new haircut, eyeglasses, braces or something else our parents forced us to wear that had the power to make our friends laugh.

But the teacher wasn’t having any of it. Totally oblivious to my pain, Mrs. Champion informed me that school didn‘t start for another 15 minutes; to go out on the playground and play.

Play? More like run the freaking gauntlet!

My worst fears were soon realized. Within moments I was surrounded by a dozen or more nasty little kids. I felt like one of those missionaries you see in the movies who have been captured by cannibals, sitting in a stew pot.

“Look!” they exclaimed excitedly, “Chuck’s wearin’ curtains!”

For one entire day that dress was the center of attention. All of the grown ups thought it was adorable and felt compelled to tell me so. By the time the final bell rang and school was over, I was ready for a drink of something stronger than Kool-Aid.

And it just escalated from there. The moment I got home, my mother met me at the door with the announcement that we had "company." It was the mother of the little boy I had the biggest crush on.

“Come here, Marsie,” she said, pulling the neckline of the dress way out, “Let Mrs. Scott see your new training bra.”

All I can say is, thank God it wasn’t trimmed in ball fringe.

When she isn’t busy lying on the psychiatrist‘s couch belly-aching about real and imagined childhood trauma, Marsie Hall Newbold works as a publicist getting positive press for her clients. She can be reached at: marsolete@insightbb.com

Rub-a-Dub-Dub, Marsie Takes on the Tub!

Last night on the way home from dinner at Bronte Bistro I asked my husband if he would drop me off at Origins on the other side of Rookwood Commons & Pavilion so I could run in and pick something up.

That’s when I saw him roll his eyes.

“Just what are you rolling your eyes at?” I asked, accusatorily.

“I didn’t roll my eyes,” he insisted, unconvincingly I might add. For a Professor, he’s a rotten actor.

As I started to argue my case I decided to let him off the hook and changed the subject. Why? Because the truth is, he might have a teeny-tiny point. Okay, okay…he’s absolutely 100%, on-the-money, no doubt about it right.

Even I have to admit, our bathroom is quite literally overflowing with bath products. There just isn’t room for more. Bottom line is, I need to cull the herd and use up what I have before buying any more. And the old, “But, it followed me home,” excuse is a lot more plausible with stray puppies and kittens than bottles of bath oil.

So that’s it, I’ve made up my mind. I’m calling a moratorium. No new bath treats until I finish what I already own. What a concept! Maybe I’ll start early and say I’m giving them up for Lent, so I can get my soul squeaky-clean as well. Now that is truly the ultimate “double-dip.” Just goes to show what a good publicist I am. Problem is, I don’t think there’s an Episcopal Priest in the world who will let that one pass. But, if you can think of one, let me know…

I love a good bath. There’s almost nothing bad that a good one can‘t soak away…at least in my world. Especially when it involves a hot, steamy tub full of water laced with bubbles or some deliciously scented “treatment” that promises to change my life and/or attitude for the better. Add candlelight, a cold, (preferably pink) drink in a crystal goblet, an Andrea Bocelli CD… and, I’m in heaven. Why take a bath in plain water with nothing more than a bar of Ivory and a washcloth to keep you company? Some people, (and I‘m married to one of them so I know they exist) take baths just to get clean.

Where’s the fun in that?

I say, (to paraphrase Marie Antoinette), “Let them take showers!” And they do, though my darling sometimes claims I use the slippery stuff and don’t rinse the tub out properly afterward so I can collect the insurance money.

Even though I’ve assured him that is not true, God help me if he ever takes a tumble in the tub and cracks his head open. But let’s get this straight. Between you and me, if that were my intent, I would have pulled that caper off long ago and would be soaking in a much bigger and better tub by now.

My absolute favorite bath product is the “Peace of Mind” Tension Releasing Vapor Bath made by the before-mentioned Origins company. Even though it is like liquid Prozac, it is kind of pricey; so I hoard it for those times when I need special comforting…like for after I’ve had a fight with my mother.

For everyday baths, I stick to drugstore stuff like Calgon, though I’m considering filing a class action lawsuit against them for deceptive advertising for not taking me far enough away. (At least not yet.) Another favorite soak is something I found in the Baby Care aisle. It’s called: “Johnson’s Bedtime Bath.” The front of the bottle says: “Proven to help baby sleep better.” This is a change from when I first started using the stuff. I originally chose it because it was mild and the label said that it helped to “soothe fussy babies.”

And at that point I was feeling pretty darned fussy. I needed something gentle because I was healing up from a rash I got down there using an ice cream topping scented body wash endorsed by a shall-remain-nameless bleachy-haired-singer-actress-”it” girl of the moment. The subsequent doctor’s appointment and crème I had to buy to cure it was so expensive I almost sent her the bill. Nonetheless, I’m wearing a pair of her shoes as I type this.

How soon they forget… Besides “the itch” that stuff must have given me a good, old-fashioned brain-washing as well.

Besides free-lance writing and reporting; the prune fingered and toed Marsie Hall Newbold works as a publicist getting positive press for her clients. She can be reached at: marsolete@insightbb.com