Chapter One HundredThirty: Ma’am and the Crêpe…

I love Crêpes. But the kind that you eat, not the ones on your face, neck, cleavage, or hands. My hands are starting to look like a Wenis (the skin on your elbow). All crepey and wrinkly. I would like to meet the idiot who coined the phrase: Crêpe skin. Why did they have to go and ruin a perfectly- good and yummy word with that definition?
I am deep in thought, walking the streets and mulling this over when I see two elderly- women. They are both delicate, like a soufflé. This was fortuitous! I begin a conversation. They inform me they are sisters. The pair are in their late seventies. The older one by two years, whose name is Gloria. The younger one is Stella. They look like two raisins. They are Queens of the Crêpe skin. They are discussing their deceased husbands. I ask how they met them. They tell me at a dance in Brooklyn. Stella tells me that a tall, lanky fellow dressed in white with what seemed like flecks of dried blood on his trousers and long white coat. Both sisters assumed he was a doctor! What a catch! According to Stella, a swarm of girls had the same thought. They circled around him like vultures to a wounded animal. Stella continues, she says thankfully the man whose name is Don only had eyes for Gloria, at this declaration, Gloria snorts. It turns out that Don was not a doctor but a Good Humor Ice cream man. The dark flecks on his outfit were dried chocolate ice cream!
They both laugh, which crinkles their Crêpe skin, additionally making it more apparent. That will be me one day, sooner than later. The folds on their skin remind me of a Shar-Pei. They could perhaps carry their metro card, phone, and wallets in-between the pleats on their face, like a built-in pocket. (Yes, I am trying to look at the bright side of this my soon to be future.) They share that they are both widows and in the prime of their life enjoying new adventures. I am in awe of their young, adventurous spirits. I also wonder if when they look in the mirror, are they disheartened by the reflections looking back at them?
We once had a Shar-Pei. She actually had to have an eye lift because her folds were covering her eyes. It was like having Stevie Wonder or Andrea Bocelli for a dog. We had to be her eyes. I found the whole thing ironic because the humans were virtually a Guide dog for a dog!
I wonder if my Crêpe skin folded over my eyes, would Confused Husband be my Guide dog? I highly doubt this scenario and think he would DEFINITELY lead me into the middle of the road, off a cliff, or some situation where I would step onto the metro tracks. It would be all over the 11:00 news: “Crêpe woman squashed by the metro, film at eleven.” Confused Husband would be on the news crying and saying: “She just stepped off the platform.” He would be the most eligible Widow in DC. Yes, I better figure out a way to fix my future eye folds.
One would think all of this depressing talk about Crêpe skin would turn one off to Crêpe’s, not this hungry soon to be Shar-Pei. I invite the sisters for a coffee. I feel it is my duty like Lewis and Clark or Marco Polo. I can be the Crêpe explorer for middle-aged women. It’s a tough job and perhaps not pleasant, but somebody has to do it, and it might as well be me.
Sitting with them, I hone in on their eyelids. They are as expected, hooded and droopy. This causes me to move my eyelids up and down, attempting to stretch them open. The only good thing I can see about having eye folds are you can nap WHENEVER and WHEREVER! No one can tell! I am truly trying to be ever the optimist for my pending fold of a future.
I slip into the conversation: “What are their thoughts on using Preparation-H on the eyelids?” (I have heard this is a quick fix!) They look at me like I have offered them a throuple. I guess, well, isn’t it obvious they aren’t up on eye treatments.
Sitting this close to them, and because we have masks on, I can only focus on their eyes. I am curious if they have shrunken wrinkled lips as well? I feel like I am on an expedition and have just discovered a new tribe. I study them as subtly as possible. It is challenging with the masks. I want to know when they began the Crêpe transformation. I have loads of questions yet am unsure of how to broach the subject without seeming rude or insulting.
I tell them about Confused Husband and my fear of him pushing me off of the metro platform when he is forced to be my guide dog because of my eye folds. They seem perplexed at this declaration. Their wrinkled eyes opening as wide as could be considering. I then share about our Shar-Pei and her eye situation. I pause and realize that they have used their Crêpe superpowers and taken a little Siesta during my diatribe of nonsense. I take this as my exit cue.
I realize being an explorer makes one hungry. I search for the Crêpe food truck…

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Nine: Ma’am and the cleanse…

Okay, so here we are in 2021. I suppose all of those New Year hopes and resolutions laced with the infusion of alcohol the night before can make you believe that anything is possible, that is until the cold glare of the reality of morning hits you like a two by four smack over the head. I stare into the mirror of truth. NOTHING has changed. I still cannot fit into a size 6 and, snoring next to me is NOT George Clooney but Confused Husband. Face it! You are NEVER going to meet George Clooney unless you fly to Lake Como, hire a boat, jump overboard in a scuba suit, and stealthily swim up to his dock like a ninja entering the property to strip down from your scuba suit, and have a formal gown underneath(Yes, it is Bond-Esq). You then blend in with the crowd and join the fête that George is hosting. (Obviously, I have thought about this scenario a lot!). George is just about to come over to me and say: “I have never seen YOU before!” But my daydream is RUDELY interrupted by Confused Husband who has woken up from his slumber during my George Daydream to announce that we are going on a cleanse! I don’t recall agreeing to this! It is a lemon juice, red pepper concoction. A stew of nonsense that will certainly make me sick. Why do New Year’s Eve resolutions invoke cleanses, diets, a new you, yada, yada?

“All the celebrities do this!” He bellows and then adds, “I bet EVEN George!”(how dare you speak of him by first name only!) “Need I remind you, we are not celebrities!” I share. He looks at me like I have just told him there is no such thing as Santa. Heading into the kitchen, he states: “WE may not be celebrities but, we can still do a cleanse!”

Confused Husband turns into a deranged Julia Child, creating his concoction with such fervor and zest, it is alarming. Watching his current frenzied state, I don’t think that he is aware of what he is dumping into this stew of nonsense. I am pretty sure, along with the cayenne pepper, he has added chocolate sprinkles. I am positive that I could use this absurd brew to remove rust.

The color of Confused Husband’s mixture borders between diarrhea and vomit. I really should be filming him and putting it on YouTube under: “Massive food blunders.” I like a fortune teller, or even a fortune cookie, can foresee the outcome of this train-wreck occurring in my kitchen. No, this is not going to end well.

The blender whirs away. I turn my eyes elsewhere as its contents are so horrifying. The ridiculous smile pasted on Confused Husbands’ face makes me wonder if perhaps he hit his head last night and is in a concussed state. With great ceremony, he presents his atrocious product behaving like a bully in a High School cafeteria. He attempts to force me to drink it with comments like: “Drink it! Oh, you will feel like a new person! Years younger!” (does he have a bridge to sell me?). I will not bend to peer pressure and suggest that he be the Guinea Pig and try it first. I sense his hesitation as he sniffs the contents of the blender. I am about to gag. No, worries he does it for me.

So much for the Great Cleanse of 2021…