Thanks to everyone who has expressed their concern…

Thanks to everyone who has expressed their concern about my father’s health. Dad is STILL in the hospital. This strain of pneumonia has apparently settled in for a nice long stay, and he has a couple of other small complications that make it an especially difficult healing process. However, I’ve been at the hospital micro-managing everything, so he should be released in the next few days to the care of his own personal Nurse Ratchett, alias my mother.

So . . . my father is in the hospital with pneumon…

So . . . my father is in the hospital with pneumonia. He’s had a lingering cough and finally succumbed to doing something about it. The man was in bad shape. He hadn’t eaten in days and he was coughing up blood every few minutes — which scared me to death. I volunteered to take him to the emergency room a few nights ago, and ended up waiting there from 7:00 pm until 3:00 am when he was finally admitted.

I found that if you’re not the sick one, there’s a lot of comedy in the ER.

Initially I was concerned that the person slumped over in his chair near the window hadn’t moved since I’d walked in. The nurse called a name, got no response, and all I could imagine is that this person had died in the waiting room of the ER and people wouldn’t notice until he started to smell. But finally he stirred and when he stood up, I realized that he already smelled, but it was of liquor. I was relieved. He was pickled. He would be just fine.

Also, there are a lot of people who don’t have primary care doctors. The ER is their primary care. This explains those waiting for treatment who are calmly and painlessly enjoying the 17th episode in a marathon of Law and Order (which I think is painful in and of itself), nursing an ingrown toenail, menstrual cramps or a common cold. What’s interesting is that those people are extremely impatient patients-to-be. They actually think they should be seen with the same urgency as someone who’s been shot, or those coughing up a lung and spitting blood, as in the case of my father.

I don’t understand how a person can be cramming Dorito’s down their throat one minute, and then complain (with a mouth covered in crumbs and the breath of a combination cheese and garlic factory) that they need to see a doctor. I would have suggested that this person stop the snacks, which might have eliminated her need for medical attention, but I was afraid she’d lift her meaty arm and slap me unconscious. You will all be proud to know that I held my tongue — if only because we didn’t need two patients in the family.

It took us 3 hours to get in to see the team of doctors and nurses who seemed to ask the same questions over and over again. I was the ER pest who kept asking when my dad could be seen. My father was just relieved to be getting treatment. And since he had a really ominous cough, the reactions to him were hilarious. One tuberculosis-fearing doctor refused to enter the curtained area until he had secured himself and my father with masks. I was offended. Did anyone care that I might also be exposed to TB?? I guess not!

So . . . the question du jour (or nuit, as it were) was whether he had been around anyone with TB, or if he’d been around any prisoners. After about the 15th questioning, I was tempted to fabricate a prison record for myself just to have something interesting to say besides the emphatic “No.”

Fortunately I had come prepared with 2 books and 3 magazines. As I was reading, my father was able to doze off in between doctor interrogations and prodding. The woman in the next “cell” over was being examined, and the benefit of not being unconscious and ailing in the ER is that you get to hear what others are being treated for. Hell . .. I needed something to do past midnight in the hospital, dammit!

Anyhoo . .. this particular woman was being treated for . . . you ready? . . . a hemorhhoid! Yep, you got it. She was driven to the emergency room after midnight for a renegade hemorhhoid because she, literally, had a pain in the ass. And then she had the nerve to be shy about letting the male doctor give her an exam. He kept saying “don’t worry. There’s no shame here.” When he was finally able to view the culprit, he said “Hmm. Okay what you have here is a hemorhhoid.” The woman said “Oh, no!” as if he had just told her that she’d had a stroke. I was cramming my fist in my mouth to keep from laughing, somehow knowing it would be seen as bad form. But when he started giving her removal options, my laughter turned into nausea.

Fortunately my father woke up and commanded my full attention. Thank God.

He’s doing better, I guess, although his cough is still a wet bark and his lungs are sore. We’re looking forward to his recovery.

The cool thing about book clubs (or reading groups…

The cool thing about book clubs (or reading groups, if you prefer) is that you get an opportunity to pick up books that you wouldn’t normally read.

I have the audacity to be in 2 book clubs, which keeps me reading voraciously since I have the “assigned” 2 books per month, and then anything else I happen to be interested in. I have to admit that I read a good percentage of Chick Lit, just to keep the relationship ideas fresh for the column.

I’m currently reading “The Bitch in the House,” which is a collection of essays, and a fantastic choice if you want to read honest opinions of women in different facets of life.

The other day I went shopping to find a new bookcase to house my ever-growing collection of literature, biographies, garden books, and the enormous amout of chicklit that I’ve accumulated. (It’s funny, too, because the chicklit stands out and is usually characterized by hot pink or pastel colors. This makes me scratch me head because MY book is hot pink. Hmmm . . . )

The books were taking over the planet and I had a wild hair up my ass to get them organized. So . . . went to Domicile (my fave furniture store), and didn’t see anything that I was in love with. Migrated to Dania, where I saw a bookshelf on clearance (I love a good deal), but refused to buy it because the salesman had the biggest stick up his ass (are you noticing an ass theme today?) and I couldn’t imagine contributing to his welfare. The interaction went something like this:

Salesman: [bothered] May I help you?

Gina: Hi. I’d like to ask a question about one of your items. A bookshelf.

Salesman: What do you want to know?

Gina: Well, I was curious as to whether or not it comes dissembled, and if so, how large the box is. The real issue is whether or not it will fit in my car.

Salesman: [irritated sigh] Show me which one you’re talking about.

I led him to the bookcase on the showroom floor

Salesman: Okay . . . so what’s the question?

[In a sort of "dumbass, what possible question could you have? It's a bookcase, for Chrissake!" tone. Mind you, this isn't a tone that sits well with me when I'm spending money.]

Gina: The question is, how big is the box, and could I carry it home with me today?

[This was an important criteria, because, like I said, I had a wild hair up my ass and needed to get the books arranged immediately. (I'm a Virgo. We organize. It's just what we do.)]

Salesman: Well, I mean the box is probably the size of the back panel. I guess it’s about this wide [holding his hands apart to show approximate box width]. And you’d have to pick it up on Friday. So do you want to order it, or what?

[With an implied: "Because if not, you've wasted my time"]

Gina: Nope. Sure don’t.

[I said this gleefully. I SO wanted to waste his time]

With that, he handed me his card and marched off. I’ve looked at this card, now crumpled in my jacket pocket, tempted to report him to his manager. I haven’t decided yet. With my luck he IS the manager.

Jeez! Don’t drink the water in Ikea. I was in fu…

Jeez! Don’t drink the water in Ikea. I was in furniture-fun-world today where there are probably more pregnant women per square yard than anywhere else in the country. I was so mesmerized by the volume of pregos that I didn’t seem to notice the usual frustrations of Ikea on a Saturday — screaming children and long lines. And most of them didn’t look old enough to be pregnant — then again everyone looks young to me these days. It’s actually kind of scary. Could I be getting old? Definitely!

Here’s the secret to Ikea — never buy more than 10 items at a time so that you qualify for that express line. And don’t try to sneak in 12 items, either! The people in line with you will count them, and get nasty if you’re in the wrong line.

Speaking of which, don’tcha just love people who have slated themselves as morality police? A few months ago, I was waiting to board an airplane, and I was standing near two of the frumpiest polyester-blouse-wearin’-greasy-stringy-hair-havin’-nosy women who probably haven’t had an airplane ride since 1978, and apparently had nothing to do besides look at MY ticket to see my seat assignment. And when they called the boarding rows, I got in line, and one of these women, who was probably an annoying suburban fifth grade teacher, had the unmitigated gall to question my right to be in line to board the plane.

As her glasses slipped down her haughty, pancaked and Avon powdered nose, she said: “Uh, excuse me … they’re only boarding rows 15-25 now. Are you in one of those rows?” How stupid did she feel when I whipped out my gold frequent flyer card which I flew MANY miles to obtain, and entitles me to board any time I freakin’ feel like it. I turned to her with my best nice-nasty smile (even though I felt like slapping her just for being smug) and said “I know. Maybe you should just manage your own ticket.” and stayed in line ahead of her.

I showed considerable constraint. It would have been SO liberating to venomously retort, with authority: “That’s right! Gold Card . . . .BITCH!” In retrospect I should have gone for it. But then, I would have probably been arrested for being an angry black woman in an airport, therefore a threat to national security. Not worth it, somehow.

My male friends always tell me that nothing is mor…

My male friends always tell me that nothing is more attractive than a woman with a DUI. And similarly, there are few things sexier than a (gay) man who’s a face-violating kisser with dents in his head who gets corrective shots of Botox. Whew! I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

7Online.com: David Gest To Marry Diana Ross?

Hmmm . . . So it seems that Star Jones’ fiance/dre…

Hmmm . . . So it seems that Star Jones’ fiance/dream man might be a tad heteroflexible. Did I call it, or did I call it? (See Feb. 16 post)

According to this (New York Daily News – Daily Dish & Gossip – Rush & Molloy: Star power alters alignment?), it seems that Mr. Al Reynolds used to “play for the other team,” according to a few former romp-mates who have allegedly seen him in a few questionable places (e.g. Fire Island), wearing interesting costumes (such as Bam Bam from the Flintstones at a predominantly male costume party wearing speedos and carrying a bone. Hmmm.) My suspicion is that he still plays for that same team, although he might do it on the down low.

Not that I’m a nay-sayer — or gay-sayer, per se– but I feel badly for anyone who has to worry about whether or not her fiance will think a man is more attractive than she is. And I feel even worse for anyone who has to mask something as primary as their sexuality for societal acceptance – or whatever his reasons might be.

My thing is that if you’re gay, you just are. Work with it. Embrace it. If anyone hates you for it, just pity them their ignorance and keep moving. But please don’t date and deceive straight women. It’s just wrong!

But wait a minute! I think I might be underestimating Starlet. There’s a good chance that she knew all about this and decided to move ahead with the relationship anyway. According to their publicist, Cindi Berger (the calamity prevention publicist who attempted to thwart the Mariah Carey-nervous-breakdown hoopla), the statement is that Star and Al have discussed all important matters from their past and would essentially appreciate it if all of the gossipers, rumor-mongers, or those who have slept with Al would just shut their damned pie-holes so that this couple can get on with their convenient marriage which promises to be full of as much drama as their public engagement. Of course I’m just paraphrasing and reading between the lines.

Does anyone else think this is the slightest bit sad?

Regarding another of my reality addictions, America’s Next Top model . . . Shandi is a drunken deprived horny girl, but Walgreens-boy won’t let her go. He knows a good contract when he sees one. She is SO winning. April might just throw herself off of a building for not winning, but she’s gorgeous, so I’m sure she’ll do fine.

Happy Monday: I had a fabulous weekend having a…

Happy Monday:

I had a fabulous weekend having a summer camp reunion, and bonding with all of my old cabin-mates (who have all grown to be gorgeous women). There’s something about old friends that make me feel good and comfortable. I hope we can all keep in touch regularly. I didn’t realize how much I missed them until we were all together!

More reality TV show updates soon!

Okay, so I haven’t blogged in FOREVER, it seems. …

Okay, so I haven’t blogged in FOREVER, it seems. SORRY!! I’ve been working like a dog and haven’t been able to have clear thoughts, let alone put them online (as if that’s where my clear thoughts belong.) But I was inspired when I saw the following:

“MODEL MISBEHAVIOR: More Boobygate fallout, folks: According to the New York Post, UPN has ordered Tyra Banks to cut out portions of next week’s highly touted ‘orgy episode’ of America’s Next Top Model, saying it ‘contains material that [the network] felt was inappropriate for broadcast.’ In the episode, the remaining contestants invite four ‘local Italian men’ over for a party and a sexfest ensues. But the real excitement takes place the following day when Shandi calls her insecure across-the-pond boy-toy to break the news that she two-timed him, prompting him to scream, ‘What were you thinking?!’ Someone needs to give these two their own reality show.”

I KNEW Shandi was a closet freak, and as for them cutting out the scene, all I have to say is Boo!!!

The date is March 3. Most of you know this alread…

The date is March 3. Most of you know this already, but there are some of us, namely those who still have houses adorned in holiday decoration, who don’t seem to understand that we’re verging toward the second quarter of 2004 and warm weather. I especially love the ones who have the large yard ornaments and actually light them every night.

That said . . . Take the snowman off your yard! Remove the trees. They are fire hazards. Get rid of the wreaths! Don’t just walk by it everyday and think “one of these days I’m going to have to take this down.” Make TODAY that day. Do us all a favor.

Okay, so I had this really long entry prepared yes…

Okay, so I had this really long entry prepared yesterday, and the entire thing got wiped out when my computer ‘hiccuped’. Did anyone see Average Joe the other night? What was that about?

Okay . . . for all of you who need to catch up, Larissa went on her final dates with Boston Brian and Gil the hunk (or Mr. Milquetoast, as I like to call him).

Gil hosted her in his hometown of Ft. Lauderdale, FL, where he took her out on a few boats, and they had dinner at a romantic mansion. The entire time, she talked about how he was emotionally distant and difficult to read. Then she asked him what he wanted to get out of the experience, and he said that he wanted to be an actor. An ACTOR? How about the right answer, which would have been “I want to develop a long-lasting relationship with YOU.” Besides, how was Mr. Deadpan going to pull off the acting thing. I don’t think he smiled once the entire time they were together.

Average Joe Boston Brian professed his love for her and said that he’d never been in love before. He introduced her to his friends, took her to Fenway stadium where the marquis was programmed to say “Welcome Brian and Larissa.” He made metaphors all day about how he would be the better choice because he feels deeply for her and has substance that the hunks are lacking.

As they were preparing for the final elimination at the airplane hangar, they showed Brian and Gil in a split screen. Brian was saying that he was so in love with Larissa, and Gil said that he “really wanted to get picked.”

At that point, I was thinking that it was a no-brainer. Of course she would choose Brian. Why WOULDN’T she?

Well . . . apparently, she preferred to penetrate Gil’s emotional wall, at risk of finding that there’s nothing there, to Brian’s blatant emotionality. She told Brian that he deserved a woman who could return his love, and she couldn’t do it.

So . . . she and Gil, the winner, (who didn’t crack a smile, even after she told him that he was the man for her) flounced down to Cabo for their romantic getaway.

Four days into the trip, she revealed her secret — her final twist. I was thinking that maybe she had a kid, or a bad case of the clap, or SOMETHING. But I was duped. You ready? She told Gil that her ex-boyfriend was Fabio (as in Fabio-the-cheesy-romance-novel-model). He got mad and left Cabo, rejecting her. He said that every man in America should be able to understand his disgust.

Here’s my issue . . . how does a man who goes on a reality show to meet a woman, compete for her for a month, only to dump her because she’s dated a cheesy guy in the past? Does he realize how cheesy HE is? I don’t understand that decision. Or maybe he figured that since he’d already slept with her, he should cut his losses and move on.

Reality shows, I tell ya. And people wonder why I’m addicted. I think I’m going to shift my focus to something much more real . . . like The Sopranos!

Allegedly thy