Sunday, March 17, 2013


 “Step into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly.

Those words have been filling my head ever since something happened recently that I’m still having trouble wrapping my aging brain around.

A friend I’ve had since my high-school days phoned me a couple weeks ago to ask how I was doing. We chatted for a while and then I said, “Now that you’re retired, why don’t you come over for coffee some afternoon and we can catch up on all of the gossip?”

“Sounds great!” she said. “I’ll get back to you at the end of the week and let you know when I’ll be over.”

In the background, I could hear her husband saying, “We’ll both go over!”

I found myself wondering why any guy would want to come sit and listen to two women enjoying some girl talk about people he probably didn’t even know. My dad used to call such gatherings a “hen party.”  So I wasn’t eager to have a rooster (a.k.a. my friend’s husband) in my henhouse.

When I didn’t hear from my friend after a week, I called her. “So, have you decided which day you’re coming over?” I asked.

“I…um…I,” was her answer.  Silence followed before she finally said somewhat sheepishly, “My husband said I shouldn’t be hanging around with you any more because you’re single now, so we don’t have much in common.”

“He has to be joking!” I said in disbelief. “We’ve known each other for nearly 50 years! We have plenty in common!”

“No…what he means is you’re going to be leading the single life now, so you might encourage me to act single, too.”

Shocked by her words, I jokingly blurted out, “Gee, does that mean I’ll have to cancel the troupe of male strippers I hired to entertain us when you come over?”

She didn’t laugh. Instead she said, “I’ll talk to you again sometime.”

I was so upset, I immediately called one of my cousins, who’s been a widow for years, to tell her what had just happened, expecting her to gasp in horror.

“Oh, that doesn’t surprise me,” she said matter-of-factly. “One of my friends stopped hanging around with me because she was afraid I’d suddenly become some man-hungry widow who was going to lust after her husband. So if some of your married friends start treating you like you suddenly have the plague, you’ll know why!”

I laughed at the absurdity of her words, but after I hung up, I started wondering if anyone actually might seriously think of me as a potential husband snatcher.

“Don’t be silly,” I scolded myself. “You’re not 21! You’re old enough to be a great-grandmother! Your dog is more of a femme fatale than you are!”

Maybe if I resembled someone like Cher, who’s even older than I am, I could understand it, but the only thing I have in common with Cher is we’re both female. Let’s face it, when I was looking at myself in the mirror the other night, I realized that if my body were a map, the parts that used to be up near Maine are now somewhere down around Georgia, and they’re rapidly heading toward Florida.  No, make that Cuba.

So there definitely is no threat that I’ll attract anyone’s husband, not unless the guy has a severe case of cataracts.

When I was on my Facebook page the other night, I happened to mention my cousin’s statement about how some people think of widows as love-starved husband snatchers. 

My longtime friend, Carole, responded with, “Heck, if you want my husband, Skyp, you can have him!”

Now that’s what I call a true friend.

I’m wondering if Skyp has cataracts.



For those of you who requested autographed copies of my book, “There’s a Tick in my Underwear,” and I, unfortunately, was sold out because I hadn’t anticipated such an overwhelming response, I’m pleased to say I now have more books available. If you still are interested in purchasing an autographed copy, please send $10, which includes shipping, to me at:  PO Box 585, Suncook, NH 03275-0585.  If you would like the book personally autographed, please specify a name, and be sure to print it clearly.  Thank you!

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