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(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)
So, it goes like this . . .
My chicks and I go way three times a year.
Palm Springs spa weekend.
Mammoth Lakes ski weekend.
And, Vegas, Baby, Vegas weekend.
Yeah, we’ve been trippin’ for a long time now.
For the last 10 years. Yeah, Ba-bay!
WE HAVE GOT IT DOWN.
Our so-called weekend getaways have now stretched into five night minimum stays.
We know where we are going to eat… who serves the strongest mai tais… where the ”I Dream of Jeanie” (Oooooh Master!) slot machines are… and where we can laugh the loudest not get thrown out of the place.
You might say, that after all these years, we could be professional partiers.
You might be right.
But, alas… we are just moms that have maneuvered a tri-annual ESCAPE for the last decade.
Admit it now, you’re jealous.
It’s okay, we understand jealousy.
These are required outings for we, the core four.
Since my girlfriends would have a coronary if I actually named them, I’ll just give you our names that we developed one year when we watched “Malibu’s Most Wanted.” Since we are all Mom’s and can’t seem to get out of the freaking kitchen . . . you may sense a theme here.
I am “White Top” AKA Wonder Bread, Sunbeam, Goya Loaf. They seem to think that I have lead a conservative life . . . I let them think what they want as I spread my three fingers and bang it on my chest like I am a “bro in the hood.”
Bang, bang, bang (three fingers) “White Bread, yo?”
Yeah, that, popping a couple of my ”Move Free” glucosamine/chondroitin pills and my hair spray makes it all very convincing…
Then there is “Cinnabon.” As you can imagine she’s a beautifully tanned mother of two, and makes her hand into “C” shape and whacks it on her chest. “Cinnabon, Buya!”
Then of course, we can’t forget “Bagel.” She hysterically tries to form a “B” shape with her fingers to bang on her chest. And, then groans, “Bagel. You guys, I got a crummy name.”
“Oy! Such is life Heidi Goldbaum,” not really her name, “You be Bagel, and don’t give us any shen-agle!”
And, then lastly . . . There is “Buttertop.” She doesn’t have to make any hand signals at all, because frankly there’s no room left on her chest. She has the most beautiful store-bought breasts any woman (or man) could hope for. So yes, she is “Buttertop.” And she doesn’t have to do a thing to just stand there with that perfectly shaped shelf of breasts.
You could put a plate of sandwiches on those breasts…
So, it’s basically us four — White Bread, Cinnabon, Bagel and Buttertop, and we try our best to terrorize Vegas within an inch of it’s questionable life.
Yo.
Yo Momma.
Me Momma?
You Momma.
We da Mommas.
We da Ho’s.
Well, I guess you can see what we “think” we are accomplishing here…
But really, life is too short to be Mommies all the time.
Sometimes . . . we have to be just girls.
Girls gone wild!
Girls gone wild…
With cellulite…
And baby-tummy.
And, thyroid conditions, and children’s college tuitions to pay.
And . . . And . . . Well, 40-ish Girls gone half-mad might be a better description.
But, ALL, and I mean ALL of Vegas knows that we have a good time! It take the city a whole year to recover from us.
Yeah, we DO know how to play…
Our husbands wish so desperately to be flies on the wall…
“No, no, no, Joe.”
“Just fo the Ho’s. You get to stay home and play Mommy, mo-fo!”
But, remember . . . most people say, “What Happened in Vegas, Stays in Vegas!”
However, OUR mantra is . . . “What Happened in Vegas . . . Never Happened!”
So, you want to go to Vegas, baby?
Yeah, I could show you the town!
Some of the Crew
The Core Four - White Bread, Bagel, Buttertop & Cinnabon
Be well,
Belle
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!
(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)
So, it goes like this . . .
I just have to tell you that this is one of the best “Sunday” songs. It’s slightly overcast in Los Angeles.
I’m a little reminiscent, and life it good . . .
Sweet and soulful . . .
Enjoy!
Be well,
Belle
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!
(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)
So, it goes like this . . .
Hairspray haze, a couging mess.
Squinted eyelids shield me from the fog of beauty!
UGH!
Do you think it’s easy to get this beautiful?
Hair dye.
Shampoo, Conditioner.
Shave my fricking legs. Timberlines on either side of the razor. Holy Crap.
Lotion, “Slick me up like a greased hog! Whew Doggy! I want to get beautified, Momma!”
Right.
I hate lotion.
No dang lotion, okay?
Mousse.
Mineral freaking make-up.
8 cleansers.
Scrub.
Toner and 9 cotton pads later.
Eyeliner.
Shadow.
4 kinds of shadow, so you think I have some depth here.
I’ve got some friggin’ depth, okay?
Shadow primer. Give me an f-ing break. What a sales pitch.
Foundation. Yeah, we’re building a mountain here.
Conture color.
Bronzer.
Rouge.
Dusting Powder.
11 different expensive brushes. You’d think I was her highness, Oprah right?
Mascara on my puny, insignifigant eyelashes. Trying to make them more signfigant.
Okay, screw the lashes.
Blow dryer with a comb, and cone on the end. Makes it look like a blow horn. Helps me to yell at my kids. “Get out, I’m trying to frickin’ beautify myself. This is serious and dangerous business. Save yourselves! Get out!”
Whew.
Brush.
Hot Curlers.
ouch, Ouch. OUCH.
And, those ridiulous pins that are supposed to keep them in? Who the heck designed those?
Asshole.
These feel like hot coals in my hands. Burning, burning. Melting. Melting?
Aaaaah! Screaming.
“Get out I said!”
Bend all the way over in front of me and toss my hair around.
Toss, shake . . .
All the way forward . . .
Toss, and shake . . . open eyes
Ooops, forgot my underwear.
Where’s my freaking underwear?
“Who’s got Mommy’s underwear?”
Silence.
Cricket. Cricket.
Forget about it.
Today, commando.
Yeah! I still got it . . .
Stand up.
Spray that mop that I call hair.
Nice.
Hard, like a rock.
Hair should be hard like a rock, right?
Human . . . once again.
“Get out! I’m not ready, yet.”
Perfume. Which perfume am I to wear today?
Yes . . . there it is . . . “Eau de Bee-atch.”
Nice.
Okay, kids. You can come in and see Mommy now.
“Are you sure?” they ask.
Don’t worry, you won’t turn to salt . . . again.
I think.
See. See what I have to go through . . . ?
Do you appreciate me now?
—–
Be well,
Belle
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!
Does your butt make those pants look big?…
Things to ponder.
Be well,
Belle
So, y’all come back, now. Ya’ hear?
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)
So, it goes like this . . .
I’m flying down the freeway in good old southern California. Los Angeles, to be exact.
Radio blasting. Car shooting down the 101, in a southerly direction when on one of my favorite songs comes on the radio.
I hear that familiar lick of the guitar. Bong, bong booooooooong. Bong, bong booooooooong. I crank the music up a couple more notches. Yeah, we’re at 24 on the dial at least. Gotta happen. This song is worthy.
And then, in comes the rat-tat-tat of the drum. “Ooooooh, Yeah…..” I grin to my friend with a knowing smile. The pulse of the music is making my butt jump around in the drivers seat. Crap these fricking seatbelts, hampering my girating pelvis. That, and the Spanx that are holding my lame ass entact.
I look to the left… I look to the right… no cops… YEAH, BABY! Just me and my friend in the two seats of my silver convertible. 350Z’s were born for songs like THIS, man!
So, I continue to jump around in my seat. Butt muscles wiggling to the sound of that snare drum. One of my favorite songs is coming on. I know it’s coming. I know the intro. I’ve been singing this song since 1973. Yeah, you know it, too, baby, even though half of you that are reading this blinkin’ blog weren’t even born yet…
And, we have that Rock N’ Roll down, now don’t we? And, as Austin Powers would, “Oh, yeeeeeaah, ba-baaay!”
So, the music kicks in full gear, on this, one of the most famous driving songs known to modern man.
Yeah, shake it baby. I look at my friend. She gets it, too. We are now a pulsating mass of dyed hair, cellulite, and prescription lenses. Hey, turning 40 does have a couple price-tags, right?
We start screaming the lyrics at the top of our non-tweeny-bopper lungs (thank you very much), and it finally ambles it’s around to the chorus, of which I have now missed my last three exits due to my “head-banging” and getting my hair stuck in my goopy lipstick — “But, hey, Baby, this is rock and roll! Screw the lipstick.” So, what that it’s dragged Revlon Red streaks half way across my face. “Yeah, man! Get outta my Goddamn way, asshole — Move your frickin’ Pinto, man! I’ve got a song to sing!”
Then, I start scream-singing the chorus. Man, I want everyone to hear me. “We’ve got a thing, that’s a called, Red-Hot Love! We’ve gotta wave our hands in the air! RED-HOT LOVE!” Then I pretend that my butt is playing the bongo interim and then I sing with sexy heat to my friend, “Red-Hot Love…”
Butt, a-shaking.
Whewwwwwww. The air in my hair.
Yeah. Nice. Still got the old tubes, man. Belting out that song. People turning even though the roar of the freeway tries to drown us out…
But, curiously, I look at my friend that is now just sitting there looking at me…
– No butt bouncing
– No head banging
– No scream-singing.
Just staring.
At me.
“What, man? This is Red-Hot Love — Sing it, man! Aaaaaah!” Once again, I break into, “Red-Hot Love.” My knees are bouncing in time with the beat. The car jerking fast-slow-fast-slow with the tempo of this Hard Rock candy. Sweet-Sweet.
She looks at me and turns the radio down. Very serious. I look at her like she has just desecrated the Virgin Mary. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THIS IS RED-HOT LOVE, GIRL! YOU GOT A SCREW LOOSE? TURN THAT RADIO BACK UP!”
“What are you singing?” She yells at me.
“Red Hot Love, Goddammit. What the hell?”
“It’s called, Radar Love.”
“What? Yeah, that’s what I said, Red-Hot Love.”
“No, Girl. It’s RADAR love.”
“Huh?”
“R-A-D-A-R Love.”
“What? SHUT-UP! No man, don’t you mess with my Red-Hot Love, man. People have died for less, man.”
“Seriously. RADAR LOVE. Golden Earring. RADAR Love.”
“What? Don’t start messing with me. I can pull over this car, you know. . .”
“HELLO? RADAR LOVE. GOLDEN EARRING. LOOK AT THE GODDAMN RADIO.”
So, the invention of satellite radio has now confirmed what will be a haunting mind-crash for the next several moments. “What? Do my eyes deceive me? Does my radio actually have the read-out — RADAR LOVE GOLDEN EARRING.
“WHAT?”
Quietly, almost afraid to tell me. “Yes. It’s Radar Love.”
“Since when?”
“Since when? Since forever!” She looks at me, like dumb-shit.
How many years have I been singing the wrong lyrics to this song?
Let’s face it, even the best of us were out on the dance floor at the local drain station, at the disco scream-singing the wrong lyrics with all the other Travolta wannabes, while we groove on our way to a liquored frenzy.
I hate to admit it, that even I, yes, Moi, may have even sung a wrong lyric or two. Ah, hell, I can’t even tell you how many hundreds (thousands) of times I was screaming RED-HOT LOVE at the top of my voice, to find out (only a mere three decades later-Ouch!) that my rendition of a Red-Hot Love, along with other lyrics of my own making, turned out to be Radar Love.
RADAR Love?
Radar Love? What the hell kind of lyric is that?
Radar Love? Hello? That’s the stinking title, too? What?
I wish I could tell you that I am embarrassed and that I regret all of my renditions of Red-Hot Love, A.K.A. Radar Love, but give me a Goddamn freaking break.
But no, I am not embarrassed.
Frankly, I think the idiot came up with Radar Love(?), should have had the sense and forethought to know what a great and enduring freaking song that was going to turn out to be, and have the Goddamn common sense to name it appropriately — Red-Hot Love.
RED-HOT LOVE.
Calm down. Take it down a notch. Okay, Red-Hot Love.
Now that’s a Goddamned song title, right? Give a girl a break.
They still play that song from time to time, and rightly so, because it’s an unbelievably great dancing song. And I am going to tell you that I have no intention of changing my lyrics to FRICKIN’ RADAR LOVE. I mean, RED-HOT LOVE.
Dang it, you’ve got me worked up here.
Radar love? That’s laughable.
Yes, I have been… and will continue… to enjoy my gyrating pelvic thrust to the now, and continued yelled title, appropriately now and forevermore named RED-HOT LOVE.
And, I will continue to convert anyone within a 99 dB radius, including my gal pals on Chick Trips to Palm Springs, Vegas, Mammoth, the Caymans, and beyond. Yes, I will continue to scream-spreading the word RED-HOT LOVE.
It’s red-hot love, Goddammit… the end… period.
The fricking end.
Forever yours,
In RED-HOT LOVE,
(Oh, and by the way, don’t even get me started on the name of the band… Golden earring? Hello? That’s about as profound as the “Baked SweetPotatoes.” UGH. Golden earring?)
Holy crap.
Well, I guess, we need to show them a little Red-Hot Love.
Be well Dahhhhlings,
Belle
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!
I am sitting in a Starbucks, drinking my double decaf cappuccino with skim milk. The bone-dry foam floats atop this meager serving of coffee that is sloshing on the bottom. As I tilt it to my mouth — Ouch, Dang, that’s hot.
I pull off the plastic lid and I break open a brown “Sugar in the Raw” packet and sprinkle it on the cloud of foam. And, then I spoon it off and eat it like puffs of roasted marshmallow — crunching the crystals in my mouth.
If I were to tell you the truth . . . I only come here for the foam. Starbucks does make great foam, and I obviously know how to eat it. You might say that I savor it like a Girl Scout at sleep away camp . . . and alas, you would be right. I hope to always be a kid at heart.
I tilt the cup again, and once more my tongue is burned by the surprised release of the coffee shot that finally makes its way through all that froth. And damn. It is still very hot.
Sometimes I sit here and just think about my life. Or think about love. It’s all very comfortable. Starbucks makes it that way. They want you to come back.
So today, I just cross my feet and stretch. Leaning my back and neck on this rotational upholstered chair. You know those chairs. There are only two of them in any given Starbucks, and you hope that when you’re standing in line that one opens up . . . or that it stays empty until your frappacino gets frapped.
By the way, that’s the other reason why I come here… for the chair… and the foam… and not necessarily in that order. Well, it’s certainly not for the coffee, right?
So today, as my mind wanders, and my tongue gets seared, I think back to a time of love. My first love. My first love missed.
I was at the University of Arizona. My 4th year of college. Campus life was nothing new to me by then.
I was in the library one night. One could get lost in that place — so full of books and turning points.
I was sitting in a cubby and bored with my science.
“How are you doing?” he said from the next section over. I pull my chair back. Ready for a reprieve from my notes. Yes, I think I would have talked to anybody right then.
And, as I lean back, I get the fortunate view of a brunette head atop a muscular form. Yes, I admit to giving him the “once over” . . . at least twice.
A shy smile. A ready stare. Young blood barely older than I.
“Well, hello!” I said as I thought, you dear, sweet hunk of a Prince. My savior from my Physics 401B. And then further thinking, have you been sitting there this entire time? And, I missed seeing you?
Now he was worth talking to.
Our chat lasted for hours. My eyes were set on his as he talked about his ranch in Idaho and his Chemistry exam. He could have talked about snaking a sewer-line and I would have been captivated. “Really, that naughty little snake goes where? And, does what? And, off course you saved everyone from all of that stinky old poop, now didn’t you. What a hero . . .
Yes, I was a goner.
I sent my friends home. Yes… Leave me here to be with this man and his 20-year-old good looks.
“Can I walk you home?” He asked, and I thought — Yes, oh please, oh please, yes — walk me all the way home. And, slowly we talked and even slower we walked. Laughing about sorority blunders and fraternity bros, big sisters and little brothers and out-of-state parents. We had so much to talk about, this new love and I.
It wasn’t even 24 hours of gazing when he asked me, “Would you be afraid if I asked you a question?”
I shook my head, “No.”
“Would you marry me someday?”
And, I said, “I just might.”
Yes, and thinking back . . . I should have said . . .
But, that was long ago. I take another sip of my Starbucks, and I am burned once again. Doesn’t time ever cool things down? I twist in my chair. Not as comfortable as it looked when I was standing in line.
Yes, so long ago. Parents and agendas blocked our first love. Two years we lasted when I said goodbye on his birthday on a long distance call.
It was two years of bliss and sex on high tables. Two years of promises of resembling babies. Two years of writing his name next to mine. It was also two years of knowing that love would never be enough. Yes, I am here to tell you that love does NOT conquer all.
Love only conquered me, and in the end of that Birthday phone call – love also conquered him.
I couldn’t take the outside pressure of this love anymore. There were too many parents in our making of love. Yes, the relationship was just too crowded.
A year later, I knew he still loved me when he called me on his wedding day. Yes, I got the note. It said “Joe, call him back ASAP.” No other Joe’s would have telephoned me. There were no other Joe’s to know.
People had told me of his wedding day plans. So yes, I knew what day it was.
He called. And, my heart was torn, but I did not return the message.
Our time has been done long since that last encounter. Ever since that long distance birthday disconnect. And, somehow he continues to live in my heart… still sitting there with brunette hair and a muscular form, a shy smile and 20-year-old good looks. Even though it is decades later.
My coffee is almost all gone now, and so is my time, and as I drink the last sip it lays warm in my mouth with a sugar crystal that survived its melting. Sugar in the Rawest form. Yes, that bit of sweetness lingered in the grounds of my cup and combined itself with the bitterness of it all. It sweetened the bite of that memory.
And, sometimes . . . that memory warms me occasionally on a cool day in the comfort of a Starbuck’s cozy chair. My first love missed . . . sugar-crystalled thoughts on a cloud of foam.
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)
So, it goes like this . . .
I feel for you friends that are out there.
You wish that someone great would come along and sweep you off your feet, right?
Well, some days there is just no feet-sweeping. I hate to tell you, but some days are just full of stinky feet.
Men and women alike, I think ultimately, want to find that special someone regardless of whether they have been single most of their life or married. I wish I had good news to report but I don’t. Sometimes you think that you’ll meet some special someone, and then you don’t hear from them and you don’t know why. You didn’t hear from him yesterday, no phone call, no future plans.
Do you want to give up on the fairytale?
Heck no, kids! Persistence, man. You have got to be relentless.
Meeting someone is about as tiring as a full-time job. It’s a numbers game. You may be tempted to compare the people that you met with someone in your past.
Is it right, or fair? To the other person? To you? Would you really want to do the same thing over when you have this second, third, fourth, fifth, seventieth chance? Aren’t there some things that you ultimately want to change? I know it may have seemed perfect in the past, but maybe it was just perfect because it sits in the past. We have a way of idolizing things that we can’t touch anymore.
I understand this, because I am a widow.
I can’t touch my past. They are times when I look at it and I wonder, I really wonder, if it was as perfect as my memory paints it.
And, I have to tell you, that the past was full of wonderful times, but the past was also full of dirty socks, occasional bad breath, and moments when you just wish that you were somewhere else.
So, when you go on the next coffee date with a potential Mr./Ms. Wonderful, give fate a chance.
Let your toes dance on an unknown path of love.
Try someone new, something new, and maybe it won’t be the same as before, but singing in harmony with someone can be awfully pleasing.
Keep shooting for the goal . . . but in the meantime, just enjoy the game.
Keep those cards and letters coming!
Be well,
Belle
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!
(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)
So, it goes like this . . .
So my friends keep telling me that I need to keep them pumped up because they are ready to chuck it all, throw in the proverbial match.com (et al) towel, and pitch the computer out the window! They have joined over and over again, and are now once again frustrated, now accusing themselves of being lame a$$ “members” and don’t even finish their profile unless they see something worth finishing it FOR. They want help . . .
Help?
Help is here.
First off, it’s a numbers game, kids. No first prizes for sore losers! Literally and figuratively. Losers will not get a first prize piece of (you know), so you’ve got to bring something special “to the table.”
Secondly, if you don’ finish your bio – HOW WILL ANYBODY KNOW THAT YOU ARE OUT THERE? Hello?
Thirdly, only consider that maybe a portion of the information is accurate. Most people state what they “want to be” and not often accurately what “they are.” And, as much, they also say things that they think that other people want to hear, but may not be what’s going on inside their head.
Danger — looking inside someone’s head is a scarey place to be. Eeeeek.
Keep those cards and letters coming kids . . . Until next time,
Be well,
Belle
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!
Note to bloggers – Some blogs aren’t forever if you change web hosting sites.
UGH.
I hate to tell you that, but it’s true. I learned that the hard way. So for all of you that have been searching for the old blog site, when I changed web hosting suppliers the blog that was associated with that hosting account just was up and gone. Yep, Disappear-O.
DOUBLE UGH.
So, now my “S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties & Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!” is on WordPress! Yeah! And WordPress is supposed to be forever . . . or so I hear.
So check out the new location at www.BelleKarper.com and follow the link on the front page, which also takes you to Twitter Belle – the fun new Twitter medium that I can use from my cell phone! Aaaaaaaaaa! So fun!
Keep those cards and letters coming!
Be well,
Be well,
Belle
—
S. Belle Karper, Author www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Twitter-Belle - all on Website
(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)
So, it goes like this . . .
I’ve decided that I am going to put off my mid-life crisis until tomorrow… I am just having too much fun today.
Be well,
Belle
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!
