HOW TO HAVE A REALLY JOLLY HOLIDAY

I apologize for not posting this before Thanksgiving, since it might have averted the inevitable sibling sniping, auntipathy, cousin cuss-out, granny griping and other relatively irritating behaviors that so often occur at family dinners. However, since next month is fraught with possibilities of similar mayhem, herewith is a surefire recipe for unsullied high spirits.

Serve whatever you like for dinner. As long as at least one dish is homemade and the Special Secret Ingredient is added, you and your guests are guaranteed to enjoy a memorable meal.

I hear the more mushy-minded among you whispering, “Oh, she means ‘love’…how sweet!” Others of a more realistic mindset will be thinking “booze”, which would be a dreadful mistake. Alcohol often has the opposite of the desired effect and, in my opinion, should be served sparingly, if at all, at family gatherings. Nothing puts a damper on festivities like Uncle Uggo falling face first into the flan or Cousin Lucky playing grab-ass with every passing human…and sometimes the family pet.

No, my dears. The never-fail, gut-busting laugh-making joy-generator is simply a fistful of homegrown, blendered to pepper consistency and mixed into, say, the turkey stuffing (so it infuses the entire bird). It’s equally efficacious as a seasoning in any cooked course, since heating seems to increase potency and effect, as well as giving any dish a giant boost in the delicious department. The fact is, even if your cooking is not exactly up to gourmet standards, guests will think it’s the most nectar-like food ever to pass their palates, so effective is the magic of the blessed herb.

At the risk of exposing myself to a visit from the local gendarmerie, I freely admit that this recipe has become a tradition at any family occasion to which I have access. Even faux family, such as the small American expat community of which I was a part when living abroad, has been treated to a Turkey Day to Remember (aptly enough, laced with product from Turkey, as I recall). Yesterday’s feast was no exception, and I am delighted to report it was as resounding a success as any that has gone before. A cousin I had not seen for sixty-some-odd years turned out to be one of the wittiest family members I ever met. Ten minutes after everyone’s plate was loaded, hilarity (and a couple of Depends changes) ensued and didn’t stop until the L-Tryptophan kicked in and everyone went home.

So, because we are approaching the season in which we are expected to spread joy, I am happy to divulge the seasoning assured to spread as much joy as you can swallow. Just remember: holidays are for sharing, so please don’t bogart the dressing.

SEX!

The following first appeared at Blogster.com, shortly after my 80th birthday. I republished it on Gather.com on my 81st. Now, several months after the 82nd anniversary of my birth, here it is again, at…um… what’s this place… iron out your thoughts? Mangle your sentences? Something like that….so, anyhow:

 

Now that I have your attention, what I really want to talk about is…. sex. I’ve discovered that, contrary to popular opinion, the carnal urge does not decrease with age. Even after a quad bypass, raging emphysema, sags and wrinkles where once there were lithe curves, I’m as lustful now as I was forty years ago.

Back then, men were as numerous as New York taxis and as easy to catch. As soon as one ride was over, there was always another waiting to pick me up, flag up and engine revving. It never occurred to me that they would one day stop running and slow down to a tottering walk.

Not that I couldn’t still nail some old geezer with the aid of a Viagra cocktail or two, but the very thought of touching one of those saggy bags of bones makes me gag. The fact is, no matter how old I get, prime man is still prime man (35-45) and he is the one who still catches my eye and jolts my libido. In other words, despite the depredations time has inflicted upon my corporeal body, the hot twenty-something girl who resides between my ears still rules my loins.

Unfortunately, the men who attract my attention don’t see her. What they see is just another anonymous old lady among the thousands of others who reside in America’s penis. If they do happen to glance my way, they either ignore me completely or ask if they can help me across the street, neither of which option is very satisfying. Evidently, drooling with desire is easily mistaken for drooling with senility.

I keep musing about “Harold and Maude”, deeply envious of the Ruth Gordon character, fully grasping the not-so-subtle subtext of the film. Unfortunately, the chances of finding my Harold are severely limited. I can’t exactly drive my scooter backwards down the street, trolling for boys, or even play grab-ass with the bag boy at Publix without fear of arrest. And even if I were lucky enough to find some hot kid with an unlimited sense of adventure, how could I expect him to undergo the trauma of finding himself on top of a dead lady, regardless of the smile on her face?

I used to think I wanted to die by being shot by a jealous wife, but now I think I just want to be screwed to death. Imagine the wonder of coming and going simultaneously! Sadly, I’m afraid I’ll never know. I’ve finally come to accept the fact that of all the aches, pains, losses and disappointments that accompany the aging process, knowing that I’ll never again feel a hard young body grinding against mine is the most difficult to accept.

So I gave myself a birthday present. I went to the dildo store, bought a lovely little device called a rabbit and named it “Harold”.

Wish me luck.

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