Tag Archives: love


Cartoon used by permission: 234892 Love 2020 by David Fitzsimmons, The Arizona Star Tucson AZ

THE CUPID LOVE TIMES—(The Tomczyk Satirical Report)/Valentine’s Day Post

On February 1st, hundreds of union Cupid leaders and the brain trusts of the National Valentine’s Association filed into an auditorium for a secret meeting. While seemingly ordinary in nature, high level leaks from the meeting have indicated that it was a very extraordinary gathering, and that come this Valentine’s Day, millions of love agents (a.k.a. Cupids) will be AWOL.

According to a high-level anonymous source of the UCW (United Cupid Workers), the Cupids have called for a strike which will commence at midnight on February 12th.  On the morning of February 13th, it is assumed that florists, candy makers, jewelers, and restaurants hosting special Valentines dinners will notice that no reservations have been made, no flowers purchased, and no romantic trips to Airbnb’s and hotels booked for that once fortuitous day.  The source says that the first indication that something is wrong in Cupidsville will be an uptick in “Valentighted” texts and voicemail messages.  For the uninitiated, the word “valentighted” was created by Metro UK writer Ellen Scott last year, and she says the word means: “the heartbreaking act of dumping someone right before Valentine’s Day, because you’re too tight to get them a gift, write a card, or make any kind of fuss… Valentine’s Day plus being too much of a tightwad to buy a gift = Valentighting.” [equal sign, mine]  In the meantime, this reporter has been told that all the Cupids who have the means to do so will relocate to Canada before February 14th—wherever Meghan and Prince Harry are hanging out. Their thinking is: if Meghan and Harry can disengage from the Royals, the Cupids can divorce from Valentine’s Day in America.

Internet Cupid Meme/Anonymous

Upon further investigation, several Cupids were willing to be interviewed by this reporter, but only if their names were not disclosed.  For the purpose of expediency, we’ll call them Cupid A, Cupid B, and Cupid C.

INTERVIEWER:  Can any of you tell me what started the Cupid organization’s decline?

CUPID A:  Certainly.  IMHO, it started with the birth of those damn internet dating sites.  Did you know there are approximately 8,000 dating sites around the world and 2,500 of them are in the United States?  I personally filed a lawsuit the minute the OkCupid site was launched in 2004. The nerve!

CUPID B:  Are you kidding me?  Our existence has been doomed from the very beginning because our modus operandi was to overpower freewill and make people fall in love with someone they hadn’t planned on giving the time of day to. Even God won’t make people do what they don’t want to do.  Not to mention, trying to catch people at just the right time and place and shoot them in the heart instead of in their asses or eyeballs has always been a lawsuit waiting to happen. 

CUPID C: No, that’s not our main problem.  We got screwed over by the Romans. The Cupids have been around since Greek Mythology.  Our name used to be Eros, the Winged God of Love (which I much preferred, by the way—much classier).  Back then we were slender and tall like a young Brad Pitt. We wore stylish tight leather pants with matching slippers and elbow-length leather gloves that caught the glimmer of our long, flowing golden locks.  (I’m pretty sure we were gay, too.)  But around 31BC, Rome conquered Greece, turned us into fat toddlers with a button mushroom-sized penis, stripped off our clothes and slippers, and we were given a choice of flying around naked or having our asses ensconced in droopy diapers.  To make matters worse, they forced us to succumb to very bad home perms for our hair. We’ve been a disgrace ever since. No one takes us seriously.

Cartoon used by permission: 74618 Valentine’s Day, COLOR by David Fitzsimmons, The Arizona Star Tucson, AZ

CUPID B:  No one takes love seriously anymore ever since the Abuser in Chief, the Orange Demon, the President of Lies, the Corrupter of Integrity, and the Bulldozer of Truth came to power.  Everybody is cynical, lacking hope, and waiting for the civil war to start.  People don’t even like each other let alone want to fall in love with anybody that’s different from them.  Where’s the excitement in that?  I used to be able to work a little magic—do a little mischief—by causing a Republican to fall in love with a Democrat, a Christian to fall in love with a Heathen, or an opera singer to fall in love with a heavy metal singer.  Now the American hearts have hardened so dramatically that no arrows of love have the capability to pierce their myocardium. 

CUPID A:  Ha, looks like someone has been reading his Thesaurus.

CUPID B:  Dude, I’m serious!  Trump has grabbed all the Republicans in Washington and across the land by their gonads and twisted them in a vice so hard that their hearts have imploded inside their chests.  There is nothing left for us to pierce—nothing left for us to do among the hard-hearted.  We are undone.  I mean we could stick around and wait for the apocalypse, but why?

Cartoon used by permission: 221646 Valentine’s Day by David Fitzsimmons The Arizona Star, Tucson  AZ

INTERVIEWER:  Wait a minute now, I’d like to push back on that.  There are other people in America who could use your love arrows.  What about us?

CUPID A:  Too late, Buddy.  Y’all are crazy and you’ve crossed over the line.  Last week some Alabama cop suggested that Nancy Pelosi should be taken out by a roadside bomb.  This week some rapper led the charge against Gayle King that threatened her life over an interview he didn’t like.

CUPID C:  Oh yeah, that was Snoop Dogg (a.k.a. Calvin Cordozar Broadus Jr.). Doesn’t that name just crack you up?  Where did he get the name Snoop Dogg from?  I’ve always wanted to ask him, but he scares the shit out of me. Anyway, I just got a text that Snoop’s Momma slapped him upside his head, and he manned up and apologized to Gayle. 

CUPID A:  Well, thank God for mommas…the Earth may yet be saved by them. But we Cupids have discussed whether we should stay or go ad nauseum.  We’ve really grown quite fond of you humans throughout the centuries, but we got a final commandment from our Boss (the big Cupid in the sky) who thinks we need to hightail it out of here before the civil war starts.  It’s his great wisdom which thinks that due to the “Capulets and the Montagues’” feud between the Right and the Left that has been churned up by the Demon King, the carnage will be unbelievable.  Our little vulnerable naked bodies will be chopped liver in that fray.  There will be naked cherub bodies flying through the air like dandelion puff balls in the path of a nor’easter. You know where we’ll be hiding out, though.  Just give us a call if you discern that the love of your fellow citizens has overcome their differences. In the meantime, you might want to engage in a strong bit of intercession to the God of Love to break the hardened hearts and give them the ability to love and be loved.  The love you guys need has gone way beyond our pay scale and love arsenal.  You need the big guns, Boo-boo! Ciao, Baby!

Cartoon used by permission: 234979 Needing More Arrows by Jeff Koterba Omaha World Herald NE

Eleanor Tomczyk is an author and a humorist who is an award-winning voice-over performer.  In 2011, she created the blog, “How the Hell Did I End Up Here” which features mostly satirical posts that have thousands of readers around the world—although she was recently banned in Pakistan (for real!).  Tomczyk’s three books were featured in a recent book festival:  “Monsters’ Throwdown,” “Fleeing Oz,” and “The Fetus Chronicles—Podcasts to my Miseducated Self.”  Currently in her 70s and living life like it is freakin’ golden, she is a consummate storyteller and much sought-after motivational speaker.  If you don’t believe me, just ask her!

Cartoon used by permission: 206562 Valentine by David Fitzsimmons The Arizona Star Tucson AZ

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Cartoon used by permission: 191041 Valentine for Washington COLOR by Dave Granlund Politicalcartoons com


Posted by on February 12, 2020 in Uncategorized


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Remember how I told you recently that The Donald had given me an Easter gift of mindfulness, and I will be eternally grateful to him for it?  How life was passing me by because I was so wrapped up in #45’s 10,000 lies that they were robbing my peace and joy? In fact, I was acting like God had died and bequeathed the United States to Donald J. Trump.  It was driving me INSANE!  Well, I got set free during the Easter season. No kidding! In order to not go crazy from his highness’ unrepentant evil, I’ve cut down the news to 2 hours a day (1 hour in the a.m. and 1 hour in late afternoon) to keep me abreast of whether Armageddon has started in case I have to move to my bomb shelter and start bartering the wine from my wine cabinet for food with my neighbors. The rest of my day is spent smelling the roses—being grateful for what I have at almost 71 years old (in June) and opening up my life to new experiences.  I am currently living in awakened, grateful mindfulness while engaging in the world around me.  It’s been absolutely awesome!  I’m so cool, calm, and collected these days.  I’m so happy and full of joy!

Cartoon used by permission: Bob Englehart, Middletown, CT

It isn’t just the antics of the toddler-king that cause me great anxiety, it is the entire 24/7 news of how badly we’re treating each other as human beings that is killing my spirit (from mass shootings in schools and houses of worship to individual meanness in our homes (some old fart in my town [75 years old] shot his wife of 54 years in front of his grown kid the other day and announced to the judge that he did it because “the bitch just wouldn’t shut up”. Oy!) 

The thing that really breaks my heart is every time I read or hear about Christians blatantly selling their souls to the altar of Donald Trump (yes, I’m talking to you Jerry Falwell, Jr. and Franklin Graham), I’m crushed in spirit, and the anguish of their deception overwhelms me.  (I’ve always wondered how those that fought evil in the past were able to keep their hearts and minds from exploding when they saw the majority of Germany’s Christians applauding Hitler and carrying out his instructions to annihilate the Jews, or South African Christians trampling on the rights of Black South Africans in the name of “divine” Apartheid, or Southerners preaching from the church pulpits that slavery of the Negro and the subsequent Jim Crow Laws were warranted and justified in Jesus’ name.  How did the minority who knew that the evil swirling around them in Jesus’ name had nothing to do with Jesus maintain their sanity?

It had to be mindfulness (dwelling in the moment on gratitude, hope, beauty, and love) that kept them holding on until the TRUTH showed up and out and set the enslaved free.

Cartoon used by permission: Bob Englehart, Middletown, CT

In my new state of mindfulness this week, I discovered that my home state of Virginia is celebrating 50 years of love.  Apparently, Virginia’s Tourism Board started the campaign that “Virginia is for Lovers” some 50 years ago, which is really ironic since Virginia is the state that was sued by the interracial couple, Mr. and Mrs. Loving (I know, talk about irony!) 52 years ago to allow them to live in Virginia as a married couple which broke the miscegenation laws at the time when they won the Supreme Court case.  Because of the Lovings, John and I can live in Virginia as an interracial married couple who have been married 40 years without the local sheriff dragging us out of our home in the middle of the night and throwing us into jail.  For 50 days, the Virginia Tourism Corporation has led an active campaign around the word “love”—“50 years of love—Virginia is for Lovers.”

I almost didn’t go for my six-mile walk the other day, because I had allowed some negative criticism of some MAGA hat Christians to seep into my thinking (why are they always so obstinate and mean-spirited?).  But I reminded myself that the “new Eleanor” was a slave to mindfulness now and needed to go about her day as an instrument of God’s peace.  So I prayed the prayer I’ve made up for myself and set off on my walk:

“I have no plans today for my life—only sketches.

Reveal to me your path—where I should go, who I should meet, what I should do.

May I be slow to anger, quick to listen, and slow to speak.

Grant me courage, wisdom, grace, mercy, and above all love for those I encounter along the way.”

Halfway through my walk as I meditated on what a fabulous man I’d ended up with to journey through this life (I call him “WW”—“White and Wonderful”), I came across a giant display of the word “love” in the central area of my community.  It was a manifestation of the Virginia Tourism’s “Love” campaign throughout the state.  And I knew exactly what my mindfulness action was supposed to be that day, and I hope the Lovings were looking down on us from heaven and grinning from ear to ear.

Photo credit: Marilyn Mason
Photo credit: Marilyn Mason

In keeping with the spirit of how mindful we should be for the love WW and I have been given (blessed with two children and one grandchild), we are not going to stop at the “love” sign.  We are going to go celebrate that love in Spain, Portugal, and England on a brand new cruise ship called the Celebrity Edge (I’ll also be celebrating my 71st birthday).  All of this is a month early (we were actually married in June on my birthday), but so what? I’m old—I can do just about anything I want.  For the entire time we’re traveling, we are going to ignore any and everything about Trump, his mayhem, and his minions’ chaos (no bad news will cross these eyeballs or infiltrate these ears).  Consequently, I will be taking a break from blogging and rolling from the spa to the dance floor, to the gourmet restaurants, and through the vineyards and cathedrals in each port on one of the loveliest ships I’ve ever seen.  I’m sure I’ll have plenty of stories to tickle your funny bones and lighten your hearts about mindfulness when I return because I plan to take my journal with me.

In the meantime, wallow in mindfulness while I’m gone—it will make your day!

Celebrity Edge Poster Photo

(They say that one of the five restaurants on this ship is one where you can build your meal via hologram—hot diggedy-dog!)


WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR?  Check out her website at

THE AUTHOR’S LATEST BOOKS:  Monsters’ Throwdown, Fleeing Oz, The Fetus Chronicles on sale now at Amazon!


Photo credit: Marilyn Mason

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on May 10, 2019 in Uncategorized


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Do you know what I discovered this week?  Being a mother doesn’t stop when your kid turns 18, and being a grandmother is full of overwhelming joys but also sleepless nights of worry—even if one of your “grandkids” is a dog.  My grand dog (Wednesday Addams) went blind in one day this week—literally.  (When my younger daughter went to work one morning, Wednesday Addams kissed her goodbye, and when she returned at the end of a very long day, my grand dog ran to the door to greet her, sailed right past her mommy, and ran smack dab into a wall—almost knocking herself unconscious).  The Vet’s verdict:  SARDS—Sudden acquired retinal degeneration disease.  My daughter was destroyed.  (Now keepin’ it 100—I don’t even like dogs.  I tolerate this dog, but my thirty-two-year-old daughter would give her life for this creature who has been with her since her college days, so because she was broken-hearted over this sudden tragedy, I burst into tears right along with her.  I absolutely lost it—for days!)  When your kids hurt—no matter how old they are—as a parent, you hurt!

Wednesday Addams Blind

GRANDDOG, WEDNESDAY ADDAMS, Photo credit:  C. Tomczyk

 As we are quickly approaching Mother’s Day, the grand dog incident caused me to meditate on my role as mother and grandmother.  In the wee small hours of the morning, when no one is there to know whether you’re telling the truth or not except God, I had to admit that—upon review—I have been a much better grandmother than a mother.  Oh, at first blush, the kids will tell you that I was an awesome mother (because they are now in their thirties and have had a taste of how rough life can be, and thus they think I walk on water to have accomplished what I did with them on so little time and so little money).  But if you ply them with a few drinks, both my girls would tell you that they have no idea who this woman is that is the grandmother to their son and nephew.  They would tell you that I have been replaced by an alien, because this patient, gentle, sympathetic, long-suffering, delightful woman who goes by the name of “Mema” as a grandmother is not the same woman who showed up to be their mother when they entered the world.

Mothers Day Peter Broelman Australia


Case in point:  When my seven-year-old grandson comes to my house, if he cleans up his mess, I am ecstatic, but if he doesn’t—gets distracted for some reason or another—I’ll clean up the mess and think nothing of it because I’d much rather he have the time to hang out with his grandfather and me doing fun things than me having to nag him about my OCD need for an orderly house.  But when my kids were little, a clean house was next to godliness.  There were color-coordinated crates for every type of toy: two brown crates for building blocks, one green crate for Legos, one pink crate for Barbies, and a miniature trunk with a lid for dress-up clothes and doll outfits.  And if they didn’t pick up their toys after playing with them, then there would be a mandatory “time-out” for that toy and its accoutrement the next time around.  I’ll never forget overhearing a conversation between my four-year-old daughter and her sister who was three years old at the time (they are 21 months apart in age), as I was coming down the hallway to check on the clean-up progress.  The younger daughter (the three year old) was hysterical about the mandate to clean up her toys.  To hear her wailing, you would have thought she had lost her mother.

3-YR-OLD:  I hate dis, I hate dis . . .I not gonna pick up toys—not now, not ever [hiccups, sobs, lip quivering hysterics]!

4-YR-OLD:  Well . . .  you better get over it, and just do it.  I been livin’ with dis woman all my life, and she ain’t never gonna change.


GOOGLE MEME: We Know Memes

Then there was the time when my grandson visited our new home in our retirement town for the first time.  We had our children during our “salad days” which meant we barely had a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of.  But in our retirement years we have been blessed with the finances to purchase a gorgeous home, and the first thing we did was outfit a wonderful room for our grandson which bears a hand-painted sign with his name on it.   Coming from a small apartment in NYC, he was more than thrilled to have his own room—he was overjoyed.  So when he heard a knock on the door while in the middle of some intricate Lego project when he was just five years old—assuming he knew who it was—he responded with extreme agitation to the knocker.

5YR-OLD-GRANDSON:  Go away!  I am very busy in my own, new, beautiful room.  Go away and mind your own beeswax!!!

GRANDPA:  Okay, Buddy.  It’s Grandpa.  I thought you might want to go to the park with me and try the toy airplane we bought.  We can go later.


(This is so true:  Said grandson absolutely adores his grandpa and had never spoken disrespectfully to him before then, nor has he ever done so.  But I digress.)  At this point in the story, his mother (my older daughter) comes barreling down the hall like a bat out of Hell, screaming: “AND WHO DID YOU THINK IT WAS?  HUH?  ME—YOUR MOTHER?! THE ONE WHO STILL BEARS THE STRETCH MARKS FROM BRINGING YOU INTO THIS WORLD THAT SOUNDS LIKE YOU SOON WANT TO DEPART FROM BECAUSE CLEARLY YOU HAVE LOST YOUR MIND?!”

GRANDSON:  Ah, yes . . . I mean no . . . I mean oh, man . . .

Grandma Rescue Call


At which point, Super Mema jumped in to save the poor boy’s hide by pulling my daughter aside so that we could have a butt-saving conversation out of my grandson’s earshot.  “Now, now, darling,” I said very soto voce—trying to bring calm to the situation.  “There is no concrete evidence that my precious grandson thought he was speaking to you.  And even if he was, he didn’t say, ‘Go fuck yourself, Mother!’ I whispered.  He said, ‘mind your own beeswax’—completely innocuous!”  And like a flash, my older daughter turned on me, one hand on hip and the other with finger wagging in my face as she addressed my slippage in the parenting department while her eyes rolled around in her head.

OUTRAGED DAUGHTER:  Mother, you are truly incorrigible!  This child can do no wrong in your eyes!  Do you know what type of ingrate I’m going to have on my hands when he turns sixteen years old, if I let him get away with this type of sassiness at five years old?  Who are you and what did you do with my mother?  Do you remember the time I royally sassed you, and you popped me upside my head when I was a teenager?  Do you remember how I got all full of myself and threatened to call the child-abuse hot line?  And what did you say, alien-woman-who-claims-to-be-my-mother?  Huh?

ME:  I said something like, “EXCELLENT!  Let me dial the number for you, so that the Po-Po will come right away and take me to jail, because at least I will get a good night’s sleep without having to put up with mouthy teenagers.  I haven’t slept through the night since you and your sister got your periods and decided to become ‘all that and a bag of chips.’  I could use a good rest from tussling with ‘little women’…”  And then I started talking to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost (or whoever else would listen):  “Can you believe this child?  Oh, Lawd have mercy!  Jesus, help me—help me Jesus, ‘cause this baby you saw fit to bless me with sure sounds like she wants to leave this world mouth first and return to you!  Good God, Almighty!”

OUTRAGED DAUGHTER:  Uh . . . huh!   I rest my case alien mother!

At which point, my five-year-old grandson sensed this to be the perfect timing for him to escape and join his grandfather for a trip to the park, but as he passed me he took full advantage of the situation and whispered to me:  “While we’re on the subject, Mema, you have no idea what this woman does to me when you’re not around.”  To which my daughter replied, as she chased after her son as he giggled hysterically while fleeing down the steps and out the door:  “I HEARD THAT, MISTER!”

Grandchildren award




I am discovering that I have a confession to make: I love being a grandmother, but I did not enjoy being a mother when the kids were—well, kids!  Don’t get me wrong.  I loved (and still do love) my girls—I would have given my life for them in a heartbeat (and still would), but I did not have the patience, the finances, the help, or the support from an extended community that I needed as a mother to give them a Sesame Street life—in other words, a less stressed-out, laid-back life.  (I lived in a warring foreign country when they were first born for several years, and then we moved to a racist, hostile environment in the American south as an interracial family with no relatives, no decent friends, and limited finances during my kids’ formative years—the latter part of which I worked outside the home.)  It took all of my energy and wits just to keep us all strong, thriving, alive, and afloat as an interracial family. There was no time to give “space” for shenanigans, “coloring outside the lines,” “silliness,” or “messiness” in general.  I deeply regret that lack in my mothering journey.

I think the reason I love being a grandmother is because I now have the time, the peace, the graceful living environment, the finances, and the patience to sit and listen—to play.  I no longer have the stress of trying to stay alive and guarding against haters.  Also, I only have one grandchild.  I actually know people who have 14 and counting.  I honestly don’t think I’d do well with that many grandkids—I’m just not that kind of woman.  I can hang with a couple more if they should come along, but I still have to maintain some modicum of order and sanity—that’s just how I roll.  Which is why I am going to hop on a plane to NYC this weekend and take my grandson to his first Broadway play, to which I can hear both my daughters’ screaming:  “HEY, WHAT’S UP WITH THAT?  YOU NEVER TOOK US TO SEE A BROADWAY SHOW!”  To which I will reply:  “Well, if I wasn’t so busy feeding and clothing you and trying to keep you alive, maybe I could have taken you to Broadway and NYC.  Besides, didn’t the truck-and-bus shows count as “Broadway cred” that wandered through town every now and then?”

Cap Amer II Frame




“A mother becomes a true grandmother the day she stops noticing the terrible things her children do because she is so enchanted with the wonderful things her grandchildren do.”—Lois Wyse

 “I have been grateful for the influence of my grandmother and my grandfather in my life. I remember my grandmother as a queenly woman. My father could be stern, and my grandparents would remind him that we were just boys.”—James E. Faust

“When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.”—Sophia Loren

Grandparents spoil



WANT TO READ THE AUTHOR’S LATEST BOOKS?  Monsters’ Throwdown and Fleeing Oz are both on sale at Amazon (Paperback and Kindle).

Happy Mothers Day Card Nate Beeler The Columbus Dispatch

CARTOON USED WITH PERMISSION: Nate Beeler, The Columbus Dispatch

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.



Posted by on May 5, 2016 in Uncategorized


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Do you know what I discovered a long time ago about finding a decent man?   It ain’t easy, Baby! I had to kiss a lot of frogs before I found a prince and date a lot of cretins before I landed a Renaissance man. It took years, but I finally found the love of my life (WW, “White and Wonderful”).  We have fought the demons of life together for over forty years, and we’re still holding on to each other like a couple of otters.

Sweet Otters

But I almost missed him—almost missed him by a thousand miles or more because I kept giving my heart to men who didn’t deserve me. It’s as if the Cupid who “shot” me with his love arrows, that drew me to those other men, was stoned and in need of target practice. Had I not instinctively known the Maya Angelou dictate—“When someone tells you who they are, believe them the first time—I would have “settled” and summarily screwed up my life. Instead, I walked—no, I bolted—the minute they did me wrong, and I never looked back.  I didn’t wait around to see if they would change because I knew they wouldn’t.  And I kept on running until I eventually found my main man.

Cupid Screw Up

So I decided this Valentine’s holiday to send “Valentine Kiss-Off” cards (à la Jimmy Fallon’s “Thank You Notes”) to all the men I loved before, and thank them for showing me what I didn’t want in a man. When the genuine article came along in WW, there was no confusion. I recognized him as the “real deal” almost immediately because my ex-boyfriends had shown me by their behavior what a real man should look like. (My apologies to all poets living and dead—and all those yet to be born.)

*** *** ***


Bad Romance

You promised you loved me,

I believed you, I did.

Though you rarely showed up,

Half the times that you said.

I decided to surprise you

That summer on tour,

Drove through the night

Met yo’ mama at the door.

“My son ain’t here,”

(Vomit churnin’ in my gut)

“I thought you was a good girl

Who knew you was a slut.”

Turns out you’re married now,

(Yo’ Mama thought I knew)

I hugged and thanked her twice,

Said: “Tell your boy, we’re through.”

Happy Valentine’s Day,

You cheatin’ a-hole Ex of old

The man who loves me now

He’s a “Mensch”* made of gold.

*MENSCH: Someone to admire and emulate, someone of noble character. The key to being “a real mensch” is nothing less than character, rectitude, dignity, a sense of what is right, responsible, decorous. (Rosten, Leo. 1968. The Joys of Yiddish. New York: Pocket Books. 237) Urban Dictionary

*** *** ***


Lose Weight Valentine Card

Damn, you was such a handsome boy!

Pardon me: a fine lookin’ man

All decked out in dress blues

Back from Viet Nam.

You knew it too, you son of a bitch

Thought you was all that and a bag of chips.

Skin the color of golden wheat

With succulent, luscious, to-die-for lips.

Dark brown eyes that had me,

Made me—drownin’ in pools of lust.

Then when you was all spent,

Your goddamn mood went bust.

You said: “You put on weight while I was gone

Yo’ ass not as fine as it used to be,

Slim it on down, Lil Chubby-ass Chunky,

If you want to be seen round town with me.”

Happy Valentine’s Day, OO-RAH!

My Ex-Marine in black and blue.

I walked out on your ass that very day,

Married a man, a gazillion times better than you.

Tells me daily how beautiful I am,

(After 40 years, I know he’s probably lyin’)

So what?—he really loves me for me

And I bless him for even tryin’. **

**I AM WHAT I AM: “I am what I am, I am my own special creation. So come take a look, give me the hook or the ovation. It’s my world that I want to take a little pride in, My world and it’s not a place I have to hide in, Life’s not worth a damn, Till you can say, ‘Hey world, I am what I am.’” –La Cage Aux Folles; Lyrics by Jerry Herman

*** *** ***


Sarah Palin Meme

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

You called me out

For not “gettin’ down with the peeps” like you.


Roses are red

Violets are blue,

You said I was actin’ all white with my talk

Said I read too much, too.


Roses are red

Violets are blue,

I dumped your stupid ass

For someone much smarter than you.


Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Valentine, you’re still shuckin’ and jivin’ in the ghetto.

Look at me! Traveling the world—praising God every day I got rid of you. ***

***LET NO ONE ELSE DEFINE YOU: “If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.”— Audre Lorde

*** *** ***


Love someone who makes you laugh

(Anonymous Google Meme)

*** *** ***

Old Couple Farts

“Sometimes the more chances you give the more respect you lose. Your standards begin to be ignored when you let people get comfortable in knowing that another chance will always exist. They start to depend on your forgiveness. That’s why I’m no longer a slave to apologies. Treat me right the first time because I can’t guarantee you a next time (emphasis mine). It’s impossible to keep me once you’ve lost my trust. I’m not saying you have to be afraid to lose me, what I’m sayin’ is . . . I’m not afraid to walk away.” — @TrentShelton #RehabTime

“The heart that’s meant to love you will fight for you when you want to give up, pick you up when you’re feeling down, and will give their smile when it’s hard for you to find yours. They will NEVER get strength from seeing you weak, power from seeing you hurt, or joy from seeing you cry. The heart that’s meant to love you wants to see the BEST YOU, not the hurt you! Never forget that.”—@TrentShelton #RehabTime




Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on February 7, 2015 in Uncategorized


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Tryin’ to Find a Good Man

Do you know what I’ve discovered about dating in 2014? If I were single and part of the dating scene today, I would give some serious consideration to becoming a nun. I’ve already made it perfectly clear to my husband that should he die before me, I’m bursting into a raucous chorus of “Climb Every Mountain,” and it is off to the nunnery I go. I don’t know how any of my single girlfriends will ever (young or old) find decent men. One of my friends found a good man online, but the rest of the forays of the wonderful women I know are the stuff of dating horror stories. Most of them date the dudes they meet at work with unsatisfactory conclusions and office drama, and a few mix it up at the clubs resulting in lackluster, temporary hook-ups . Their temporary “boyfriends” turn out to befor the most partparsimonious, lacking imagination, sleazy, and down-right creepy. Somehow, I don’t think God ever meant finding a good life partner to be this hard.


Actor: Kevin Hart Meme

Since I’d been getting so many heartbreaking stories sent to me, I decided to set up an advice column via my alter ego, “The Dalai Mama.” (The Dalai Mama can say what I can’t.) All the scenarios are true and the ages of the women range from 25 – 55 years old from all different walks of life and ethnicities. Please note: The names and locations have been changed to protect the screwed-over.


Dear Dalai Mama: I’ve been dating a man who I met several months ago at a business function. He is single and has a little boy that I have yet to meet. He’s originally from another country, but is an American citizen. “Matthew” owns several businesses and is well off. He has been uber-generous to me—almost too generous now that I think about it. From the moment we met, “Matthew” couldn’t stop showering me with expensive, over-the-top gifts. He called me six times a day professing his undying love. If I imagined a need, he was there to fulfill it—like a real-life genie love machine. I tried to put on the brakes by warning him that he was moving too fast (in the beginning I returned the gifts), but that seemed to make him more determined to push toward a future together. By the third month, he had already planned our life as husband and wife and was pressuring me to get married. I must admit all the attention was flattering, which is why I didn’t pick up on all the convoluted lies at first. But last week he flew back to his home country to attend a funeral and when I surprised him with a “Happy Easter” call on my way to church, a woman answered his phone and asked me who I was. I answered, “I’m Matthew’s girlfriend,” and she responded in a thick accent, “Oh gez? ‘Cause I Babka’s wife, bitch!” Dalai Mama, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I immediately told “the wife” that Matthew—Babka (whatever his real name is) no longer had a girlfriend cause I don’t play that. There was a lot of screaming and yelling in the background between the two of them and I hung up. I’m over this dude, but here’s the problem: The asshole has been calling me nonstop trying to “explain” why I misunderstood the situation—why he just needs time to explain—he’s sure I’d understand if I’d just hear him out. I don’t want anything to do with him. I’m no saint, but I don’t mess with other women’s husbands. Help! What if he shows up at my house when he returns from overseas? What can I say and do to end this virtually so that I never have to see him again? He had the nerve to ask me if he could meet my parents when they came to town in the future, and if I’d have a “sit down” with him and his wife because he’s sure the three of us could work something out. WTF?

Signed: The Other Woman BY MISTAKE


Dear Other Woman BY MISTAKE: Child, didn’t your mama ever tell you that if somethin’ seems too good to be true, it probably is? That sorry-ass man was moving way too fast and furious; he had to be up to no good from Jump Street. No matter what, don’t see that asshole ever again. Sounds like he’s tryin’ to do what the Frenchies call a ménage à trois or what some of the Mormons call “sister-wives.” Run—don’t walk away from this fool. If you do accidentally run into him, start singing Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable” at the top of yo’ lungs like you done lost your ever-lovin’ mind, all the while showin’ him yo’ hand:

“So since I’m not your everything (irreplaceable)

How about I’ll be nothing (nothing)? Nothing at all to you (nothing, nothing)

Baby I won’t shed a tear for you (I won’t shed a tear for you)

I won’t lose a wink of sleep (a wink of sleep)

‘Cause the truth of the matter is (truth is)

Replacing you is so easy.”


Dear Dalai Mama: First of all, let me tell you that I’m 55 years old, and I should know better. But I was lonely—so lonely that I could hardly breathe from the heartbreak of the isolation when I met “George” about ten years ago. He was vibrant and fun. We used to go dancing and everything was an adventure. We had both been married before but didn’t see any need to tie the knot again. All our children are grown. For the first ten years we had our own homes, but after he retired, we both thought it would be prudent to move in together. Of course, he insisted on moving into my little 1,200 square-feet apartment because the upkeep of his 4,000 square feet home was too costly—so he said. After the move was when everything changed. His entire personality turned into the Goodyear Blimp. I am still working, but all he does is sit around in his La-Z-Boy all day long. He leaves his dishes on every surface except in the dishwasher, and no matter how late I have to work, he’ll wait for me to come home to cook dinner. Recently, something bizarre has happened: his brothers have convinced him that I’m trying to poison him. Also, he’s stealing cable from the neighbors and spends most nights gambling on the casino riverboats. When he goes out to gamble he gets all dressed up with too much man cologne. Why does he dress for his brothers, but for me, he just hangs out in a robe with his balls hangin’ out of the bottom of his shorts, while crunching on Cheetos from a bowl that is permanently perched on his rotund stomach? Dalai Mama, I’m lonelier now sleeping in a bed with someone than I’ve ever been in my entire life. Right now I’d give anything to (how did Gwyneth Paltrow phrase it?) “consciously uncouple” from this man who has mentally abandoned me. Can you help?

Signed: Frozen in Albuquerque

P.S. We haven’t had sex in two years.


Dear Frozen in Albuquerque: Have you read Eleanor Tomczyk’s new book, Monsters’ Throwdown? ‘Cause it sounds like yo’ man is going crazy, and she knows a little something about people suddenly losing their minds, as you’ll see in her book. In the meantime, this guy needs to go live somewhere else, girlfriend. You signed up to be his lover and his girlfriend—not his maid and his slave. I’ve found a “Bad Boyfriend” doll on the Internet that looks like it might do the trick to get him movin’ if you yelling at him to “GET UP” don’t work.   (I personally do not engage in voodoo, but desperate times call for desperate measures.) Try this doll and see if it works. Once he’s up and hopping around from the pain of imaginary pins in his ass toss the La-Z-Boy into the yard, call his brothers to haul him and the chair up and out, and change the locks. Then go on a nice long vacation and get reacquainted with yo’self. Let me know how it turns out.

All the best Sistah-friend!

P.S. Get yo’self a dog; he’ll be much better company than the dog you’ve been sleeping with for the past decade!

Bad Boyfriend Yoda Meme

I am discovering from talking to my girlfriends that there is nothing worse than loneliness—without a man or with one in your bed when he doesn’t love you anymore. I don’t think God ever intended our hearts to suffer like this. Cheers to the men who have done the right thing by their women. Shame on the ones who have not. You have no idea how much love, grace, companionship, and healing you are missing by playing the role of the asshole instead of the knight.


“Men are liars. We’ll lie about lying if we have to. I’m an algebra liar. I figure two good lies make a positive.”Tim Allen

You know your boyfriend (or husband) might be lying:

“[1] if he pauses before answering difficult questions . . .

[2] overuse of fillers such as ‘well, umm, ah, uh huh’

[3] He avoids eye contact and appears to blink more than usual

[4] He fidgets and shrugs “–Daily Mail by Bianca London*

“You don’t have to dumb down – you just have to find a clever, good, secure man. I’ve found a couple – I’ve been lucky – but it’s probably hard for everybody to find that true love of a good man.”Kimora Lee Simmons




Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on April 25, 2014 in Uncategorized


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“Ain’t Nothin’ Like the Real Thing, Baby . . . .”

Do you know what I’ve discovered about this Valentine’s Day?  I got struck by Cupid’s arrow some 41 years ago and it was true love—go figure!   I am black, and he is white.  We met 7 years after the Supreme Court struck down the miscegenation laws across America via Loving vs Virginia.  We married 12 years after interracial marriage became legal in the United States.  (But even though the anti-miscegenation laws took effect in 1967, it took South Carolina until 1998 and Alabama until 2000 to get their acts together—and they did it by a mere 62% (SC) and 59% (AL) of the voters.)  Oh well, good thing WW (white and wonderful) and I went on about the business of building our lives and being outrageously happy without waiting for the naysayers and the racists to give us permission to love.


WW and The Blogger loving life together when they were young


WW and our babes (mutual admiration society)

WW and I owe a great deal of gratitude to Mildred and Richard Loving.  God knew what he was doing when he allowed the burden of overturning the miscegenation laws in America to be placed upon their backs.  They were simple country people who had grown up together and fallen in love.  They weren’t interested in brandishing a cause—they just loved each other.   When they married in DC where interracial unions were legal, they came back to their home in Virginia to start their lives together.  I have often tried to imagine what it was like when the white sheriff and his two deputies broke into the Loving’s home in the middle of the night while they were sleeping and dragged them out of their bed and put them in separate jail cells—tormenting Mrs. Loving with the threat of rape from other prisoners.  They pled guilty to “breaking the law” and were sentenced to one year in jail, but it was suspended for 25 years if they agreed to leave Virginia and never return together— leaving behind their home, their land, their parents, their friends, and their relatives.

Richard and Mildred Loving

Mildred and Richard Loving courtesy of

The trial judge of Virginia (Judge Leon Bazile) issued the following statement when asked to reconsider his judgment against the Lovings:

“Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, Malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And, but for the interference with his arrangement, there would be no cause for such marriage. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.”

When I read Judge Bazile’s statement, I wondered what type of marriage he had.  Was he happy?  Did he touch the soul of his wife like a deer panting after running rivers when it is with thirst?  Because, you see, WW and I have experienced that type of deep, deep love.  When I see the signs of the racists who equated the mixing of the races to communism or heralding the Anti-Christ’s reign of terror down on our country, it causes me to ponder how many of these men beat their wives, or how many of these people divorced each other, or even how many lived in cold silence as they forced themselves to simply co-exist until the end of their days?  How many of them listen for the garage door to open and feel a rush of excitement that their man or their woman has come home to them at the end of another day after 34 years?  How many of them go to dinner and never utter one word of conversation to each other because they have nothing in common?  Because you see, WW and I can’t shut up from sharing what we’ve experienced while we’ve been apart because we’re each other’s best friend and best listener.  We love many of the same things, and what we don’t love, we pretend that we do.  I wonder if the people in the picture below got marriage so perfect that they can now sit at the right hand of God and judge all others outside of their spectrum.

Race Mixing

Civil Rights Image Archives

It took the Lovings nine years to win their case to stay a married couple in Virginia.  In 1967 they prevailed and Chief Justice Warren issued this statement:

“’Marriage is one of the ‘basic civil rights of man,’ fundamental to our very existence and survival…. To deny this fundamental freedom on so unsupportable a basis as the racial classifications embodied in these statutes, classifications so directly subversive of the principle of equality at the heart of the Fourteenth Amendment, is surely to deprive all the State’s citizens of liberty without due process of law. The Fourteenth Amendment requires that the freedom of choice to marry not be restricted by invidious racial discriminations. Under our Constitution, the freedom to marry, or not to marry, a person of another race resides with the individual and cannot be infringed by the State.’

The Supreme Court condemned Virginia’s anti-miscegenation law as ‘designed to maintain White supremacy.’”—Wikipedia


The most romantic words I’ve ever heard were from the lips of Richard Loving on the HBO special just before the Supreme Court ruling when his lawyer asked if he had any message for the judges:

“Mr. Cohen, tell the court I love my wife!”

Interracial Marriage cartoon Kevin Sters

Kevin Siers/Cartoonist:

I am discovering what I’ve always known:  I love my husband, and I can’t imagine having lived life without him.  I would be half the person I am today.  Marvin Gaye was right when he sang:  “There ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby . . .” In the beginning of our marriage, people used to stare at us all the time and occasionally make cracks about our interracial status (“hey Zebras”).  But now when people of any race stare at this old couple quickly scooting towards our 70’s, they often ask how long we’ve been married, gasp at the answer, and then ask us our secret.  We used to throw two-word one-liners at them:  “it’s communication, it’s respect, it’s laughter, it’s prayer. . .”  But now we just say it is love, and the definition is I Corinthians 13:4-8.


If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don’t love, I’ve gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I’m bankrupt without love.

Love never gives up.

Love cares more for others than for self.

Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.

Love doesn’t strut,

Doesn’t have a swelled head,

Doesn’t force itself on others,

Isn’t always “me first,”

Doesn’t fly off the handle,

Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,

Doesn’t revel when others grovel,

Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,

Puts up with anything,

Trusts God always,

Always looks for the best,

Never looks back,

But keeps going to the end.

Love never dies.




I love You allvoices dot com


“Love is no game! It is no flowery softness! It is hard work-a quest that never ends. It demands everything from you-especially the truth. Only then does it yield rewards. -Cupid”Rick Riordan, The House of Hades

“All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.”—Charles M. Schulz

“Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone – we find it with another.”—Thomas Merton Author and Husband

Let us grow old together because living well is the best revenge!

More about how WW and I met in my new book, Monsters’ Throwdown at Amazon and Kindle


Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on February 9, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Blush and yellow Hibiscus

A glimpse of E. Tomczyk’s garden | photo by “WW” Tomczyk

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  It is just days before my thirty-forth wedding anniversary when I’ll celebrate being married to the most amazing human being I’ve ever met:  WW (a.k.a. “White and Wonderful”).  So it seems like a good time to take a couple of weeks off and hang out with my man and revel in those gorgeous blue eyes—contemplating how blessed I am to know such a man of integrity, strength, and courage.  I want to celebrate love with a man who has spent our entire married life helping to heal all the wounds my childhood haters inflicted.  To do this, I will need to step away from the news (Farewell, M. Bachmann: there is a God and you just got schooled by him), step away from my blog, and tune out all my trolls.   I plan to sit amongst my flowers with my man, read some books, drink lots of wine, thank God I’m alive, and work on my memoir—especially the love story of WW and me which is the book’s last chapter and rivals anything Nicholas Sparks has ever written (yeah, Baby!).  And then I’ll swing back in a couple of weeks to pick up where I’ve left off and see if my readers have kept out of trouble.    In the meantime, here are a few thoughts on marriage.

Anniversary Interracial Marriage

Cartoonist:  Kevin Siers | The Charlotte Observer

What’s your secret?  That is the most commonly asked question I get when people hear that I’ve been over-the-moon, happily hitched for thirty-four years (plus six dating years) to a white dude.   Anyone who knew me in my youth knew that my mantra was that I would never marry someone who was white, because “there was nothin’ no white man could do for me.”  (Good grief—the arrogance of youth still makes me shudder!)  In previous years when asked what I thought made a successful interracial marriage, I’d say all sorts of cliché bullshit that first popped into my mind without giving it much thought:


“Loving God”

“Weekly date nights”

“Great sex”

“Must have things in common”

“Being each other’s best friends”

“Learning how to pick your battles”

“Being a good listener”

Early on there was also the Herculean task of ignoring the racist naysayers when they tried to thwart our marriage by saying stupid shit like:  “A robin can marry a dolphin, but where will they live and what about the children—they won’t be fish or fowl!”

Loving day wedding bands

The children (ages 29 and 30) did just fine—they neither have flippers nor wings—and WW and I didn’t have to summer in a nest at the top of a tall tree or winter beneath the waves of the Caribbean Sea to survive.  While the list above contains some truths about sustaining a marriage, none of them were ever any guarantee that our marriage would form into the rock that it became.  I’ve known Christian couples who claimed Jesus as their Lord and Savior every other breath, could quote the Bible backwards and forwards, went to church whenever the doors were open, were religious about a date night every Friday, preached against Gay marriage as a sin and a detriment to heterosexual marriage, and yet they were the nastiest piece of work toward each other that I’ve ever had the unfortunate opportunity to witness.

Somehow, being at peace with the concept that one has found the right person who aligns with one’s spiritual and aspirational goals is half the battle.  But making damn sure that one is truly in love with the individual and not “in love with being in love” is the hardest plumb line to adjust to—especially for women.  Between our little girl dress-up fantasies, our Cinderella and Prince Charming fairy tales that we’ve grown up with all our lives, and now the “keeping up with the Joneses” Pinterest, women can get pretty screwed up when it comes to what is real or what would make a great “pinned by______” on the photo-sharing website when it comes to getting married and staying married.

Anniversary marriage thelaughinghousewife dot wordpress dot com

Cartoon from:

I am discovering that I do know (after 33 years) what makes a good marriage go the distance—no matter who you are, and even if you’re a robin who married a dolphin:   It is grace, respect, and a sense of humor.

Grace:  to be able to accept the things about each other that drive us nuts without developing a nervous tic whenever our spouse’s peccadillos emerge.  Grace doesn’t work without forgiveness and therein lays the stumbling block to it—grace takes daily exercise.

Respect:  to never, ever, ever cross the line of contempt, disdain, rage, or abuse when it comes to dealing with our lovers.  Those are flesh-eating zombies and very difficult to survive.  But if it should happen, having the grace to immediately, and genuinely, ask forgiveness, along with the grace to do whatever it takes to never cross those boundaries again.  No amount of love can keep a marriage together without an equal amount of respect.

A sense of humor:  the ability not to take oneself too seriously—about anything!  The ability to laugh uproariously—in the moment—about our own imperfect humanity!

Anniversary humor

Cartoonist:  Walt Handelman|Newsday

“It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.”—Friedrich Nietzsche

“Every good relationship, especially marriage, is based on respect. If it’s not based on respect, nothing that appears to be good will last very long.”—Amy Grant

“People always fall in love with the most perfect aspects of each other’s personalities. Who wouldn’t? Anybody can love the most wonderful parts of another person. But that’s not the clever trick. The really clever trick is this:  Can you accept the flaws? Can you look at your partner’s faults honestly and say, ‘I can work around that. I can make something out of it.’? Because the good stuff is always going to be there, and it’s always going to pretty and sparkly, but the crap underneath can ruin you.”—Elizabeth Gilbert, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage

“A wedding anniversary is the celebration of love, trust, partnership, tolerance and tenacity. The order varies for any given year.”—Paul Sweeney


E. and “WW” Tomczyk| Photo: Tomczyk Archives

WW and I:  many anniversary celebrations ago . . . a little more hair, a little less “fluffy-nutter,” but very much in love.

Love Birds

E. and “WW” Tomczyk| Photo: C. Tomczyk

Ebony and Ivory:  34 years and counting . . . a little less hair, a lot more ass, but still very, very much in love.  Thank you Loving v. Virginia (Mildred Jeter, a black woman, and Richard Loving, a white man) for paving the way.  WW and I are eternally grateful to you and I know you cheered us on in that great cloud of witnesses!

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on June 1, 2013 in Uncategorized


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Say WHAT?!

Do you know what I’ve discovered?   I need a break!  My mind is about to explode (again!).  Keeping abreast of the news to stay informed as a blogger affords me more stress than my little, little brain can consistently handle, and I often need to get away—if only just in my mind.  Not to mention the fact that this blogging stuff is so much harder than anyone lets on.

When a would-be writer first starts the task of telling the world her innermost feelings, she naïvely thinks the world will just be waiting with bated breath for her latest “mot juste.”  Not only isn’t the world chomping at the bit to read my her crap (although, I shouldn’t complain—I’m doing better than most), it takes a lot of reading to stay informed and not sound like an idiot.

So, this week, I needed to go to a place to get fresh perspective on the inhabitants of the Earth who are coming across as mostly good-for-nothing-ne’er-do-wells as was demonstrated by the tone-deaf NRA who will probably destroy any formative gun control, a crazy North Korean who wants to nuke us and take over the world, and the alleged mass murderer, Kevin Gosnell, who operated an illegal, unregulated abortion clinic for years and committed mass murder against full-term babies and at least one mother in the most barbaric, horrific manner.  (IMHO: this is not a pro-choice or pro-life issue—this is a basic human rights issue.  Why have we liberals been so quiet about this evil man’s barbarism?)   Humans are the custodians of the Earth and we don’t seem to be doing very well.  As a blogger, I’m losing the creativity to write about human meanness in such a way that it pricks the hearts of those who stumble across my blog and brings about compassion and a desire to love one’s fellowman as one’s self.

blogging fame horsey

Cartoon by David Horsey |

We jumped 35 degrees and skipped from winter to summer (it is 95 degrees at this writing) in my area this week, and when I went for a walk to clear my head, I started seeing all sorts of crazy animal activity unnerved by the sudden hike in temperatures.  Woodpeckers were frantically pounding away at the siding on my house trying to get in to build a nest (convinced they were behind schedule, I’m sure).  Hundreds of sparrows were trying to find hiding places in foliage that hadn’t had time to make its appearance.  The sparrows knew that the 17-year-cicada invasion (whose entry cue is a temperature of 65 degrees), would now arrive early before the birds had set up condos in the trees, and the squirrels just looked at me with a “Say What?!   I think all the animals thought I could answer for the erratic behavior of the weather.  While I walked, I meditated on the biblical character of Job who was pretty pissed off at his fellow humans at one time (I’m sure he was the Earth’s original ranting blogger, or maybe it was Jeremiah with his Lamentations, but my old age is causing these details to slip).  Job was pretty hacked off about the way his friends were treating him, and the state of affairs in his hometown (marauders, mayhem, chaos, loss of his business and his entire family, giant boils on his skin, and people generally getting on his nerves telling him that all the mayhem was his fault).  At one point Job lashes out at his so-called friends and tells them how they can ascertain the truth about life since they don’t believe him and can’t seem to see it with their own eyes:

“Ask the animals, and they will teach you,

Or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you,

Or speak to the Earth, and it will teach you,

Or let the fish in the sea inform you.”

Aha! I thought.  I will go and speak to the animals and see what I can learn from them about the human race.  I shall send my alter-ego (the Dalai Mama) to interview a sector of the animal population that can best shed light on life—our closest relatives—the primates.

Bonobo couple finbarr and oreilly photo msn

Bonobo Couple | photo by Finbarr and O’Reilly/Reuters via MSN



By Dalai Mama at DM-TV | Location: The Democratic Republic of the Congo

DM-TV:   “Mr. and Mrs. Bonobo, how y’all doin’?  I’m so glad to finally meet you.  Are you ready for your Dalai Mama TV interview?  Excuse my ignorance, but do you know I never heard of your kind, and I’m sure most of my audience never heard of you either.   It’s not your fault; it’s just that America’s educational system isn’t the best these days.  I barely knew where Cincinnati was when I was growing up in The Cleve, let alone, the Congo.  But I did do some research on you recently,* and I discovered your official name is Pan paniscus—affectionately known as the pygmy chimpanzee.  That’s so precious.”

LYDIA:    “Actually, dear, we are a close cousin of the chimpanzee, but they are much more quarrelsome than we are, and many of them are extremely boorish and don’t play well with others—much like you humans.”

CLAUDE:  “Now Lydia, don’t be rude, sweetheart.”

LYDIA:    “Sorry, darling, I was just trying to point out that we Bonobos have a reputation of ‘make love, not war.’  The Google says that hippy humans tried this in the 60s but it disintegrated into drugs and chaos.”

DM-TV:   “Yeah, we got the sex part kinda right, but we still kept killing each other.  Is it true that you share 98 percent of our DNA, ‘cause that just boggles my mind, child.”

LYDIA:    “So, we’ve been told, but we are way ahead of you humans on a few levels.  Did you know that female Bonobos rule over the male Bonobos?  We solved the equality issue a long time ago—we just simply declared, “Girls Rule!”  The only other species that do this are the spotted hyena and the Madagascar lemur.   I’m the leader of this tribe, so if you need anything, just let me know.  Would you like something to eat—a banana, perhaps?  I’ve heard that you humans are still wrestling with the concept of female leadership.  Is it true you’ve never had a woman leader of your country?”

DM-TV:   “Yeah, it’s true—maybe next time.   For some reason, women continue to be a threat to the male leadership in my country as well as so many other cultures.  Girl, it’s just insane!   Tell me something—do y’all share your food so that no Bonobo goes hungry (this banana is delicious, by the way)?  And do you provide childcare for the entire group?

LYDIA:   “Yes and yes.   Women are in charge of the food and we will usually share with our immediate family and those we don’t know. Every once and awhile we’ll swat a male Bonobo away from the food if the babies haven’t eaten.   All Bonobo babies are provided for—no matter who the parents are.  You humans don’t share your food or provide universal childcare?  That seems a little primitive, don’t you think?  No Bonobo dies from hunger.  We’re dying out, but we’re dying because of your human wars and rumors of wars.  We used to be 100,000 strong in the Congo; now we are down to a mere 5,000 Bonobos. And since we only exist in this area of the world where there’s always humans destroying the jungle and poaching our friends and relatives, we’re on the endangered species list.  I’ve got to admit that our daily existence can get really stressful due to you humans.  The older Bonobos are pretty Zen about it all, but the younger ones (you know teenagers; you can’t tell them anything) are furious about the whole situation and can get quite aggressive from time to time.

Evolvers Anonymous Piraro

Cartoon by Dan Piraro |

DM-TV:   “Speaking of stress, I read somewhere that Bonobos use sex as tension relief, as an expression of goodwill, and to enhance bonding.  Is it also true that the Kama Sutra is required reading for all the Bonobos?”

LYDIA:    “That’s an urban legend, girlfriend.  Don’t believe everything you hear or read on the Internet.  Unlike the crude chimpanzees, who have no creativity whatsoever when it comes to having sex, the Bonobos perform sex in every position you can possibly imagine and then some, including the missionary position which the chimpanzees have still yet to master (I told you they were crude).  We Bonobos do mouth-to-mouth kissing, oral sex, penis-fencing, and G-G rubbing just to name a few of our Bonobo-like “Kama Sutra” acts.  We also have homosexual Bonobos, but that is not unique to us.  I read the other day on the Google that 1,500 species have homosexual couplings.”

DM-TV:   “Holy Mary, Mother of God, I don’t even want to know what “penis-whatever” and “G-G (oh my God)” is!!  You Bonobos sho’ know how to get yo’ freak on!”  I’m way too old to be hearin’ this!

LYDIA:     “He, he, heeee . . . are you blushing, dear?  Look Honey, the human is embarrassed!”

CLAUDE:  “Mother, stop messing with our guest; you can see she’s beet red even underneath her hairless brown body.   Is there anything else, you’d like to know Mrs. Dalai?”

DM-TV:    “Um . . . um . . . no, don’t you think that’s enough?  I need a bar of soap to wash out my brain and my eyes as it is.  Oh yeah, I did have one more question (God may this be a safe one!)  How do you socialize?  Do y’all play games?

LYDIA:    “That’s one of our best assets, Dalai Baby!  Playing together is how we engage in creativity, how we bond, how we problem-solve, and most of all, how we avoid conflict.  What are you writing so furiously, dear?”

DM-TV:  “A note to our President:  Dear President Obama—‘Please send the legislative branch to the Congo for a teaching session by the Bonobos on game-playing as conflict resolution and team building—ASAP!  I think our leaders will be able to learn from the Bonobos if they will just shut up and listen.  P.S.  The Bonobos are a tad X-rated.’”

Bonobos at play Ted 2011 thinkfun dot com

Primatologist and TED Fellow Isabel Behncke Izquierdo show how a wild bonobo ape society in the Congo learns from constantly playing at Ted “Think Fun” 2011.  


I am discovering that we still have so much to learn about the Earth and the animals that we’ve been given stewardship over—not to mention how much we need to learn and respect about one another.  It seems to me that we all need to slow down, stop the madness of warring against each other and raping of the land and its inhabitants, and listen to what God’s creatures are showing us about who we are and what we need to do to become truly human (that’s a lot of “ands” but you know what I mean).  I personally believe that the entire Earth and the heavens speak to who we are and to the glory of God.  We are more than our politics, the limitations of our religions, and the narrow-mindedness of our experiences.  Let’s all take a chill pill and go talk to the animals this week.  We just might learn how to be human.


                                Experience demands that man is the only animal which devours his own kind, for I can apply no milder term to the general prey of the rich on the poor.”–Thomas Jefferson

“I ask people why they have deer heads on their walls. They always say because it’s such a beautiful animal. There you go. I think my mother is attractive, but I have photographs of her.”—Ellen DeGeneres

 “Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps; for he is the only animal that is struck with the difference between what things are, and what they ought to be.”—William Hazlitt

“Some people talk to animals. Not many listen though. That’s the problem.”― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Animal Adorable Sea Lion and  Allison Williams Girls thefw dot com

“Talk to the Animals”: Adorable Sea Lion and Allison Williams from “Girls”|



* “An exclusive Look at Bonobos: The Left Bank Ape” by David Quammen from National Geographic, March 2013


* are an endangered species.  Please check out the Bonobo Conservation website to learn more about them and how to participate in saving them from poachers, loggers, and agricultural encroachment.

Bonobo joke borwn dot edu laboratory primate letter

BONOBOS AT PLAY | | laboratory primate letter

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on April 12, 2013 in Uncategorized


Tags: , , , , , ,

Epic Valentine Fails

Do you know what I’ve discovered?    When I die and sail off into the great unknown, the first thing I’m going to do is look up Eve (of Adam and Eve fame) and kick her ass because of the “curse” and the gross birthing method women got saddled with.  I mean what woman has ever truthfully thought that that monthly plague we get was worth its hassle, or what woman wouldn’t exchange the excruciating pain of childbirth for the power men seem to have been endowed with from Jump Street.  In a fair world we should have been able to switch roles halfway through our lifetimes—kind of like musical chairs.  Maybe it would have been negotiable.  Who knows?  But we never got a chance to find out.  All that chick Eve  had to do was follow the game plan; but nooooooo, she was all:

EVE:       “Eat the apple Adam.  If you do we’ll be like God and we’ll know everything.  What’s the worst that can happen to us, Adam?” 

Adam and Eve Mistake garyharbo dot com

The second person whose ass I’m going to whup is Esther Howland, the mother of the American Valentine card.  The fluke thing that made Esther rich in 1840 was the spawn of all that is evil about Valentine’s Day in 2013.   It was just our luck that Esther was the daughter of a stationery store owner and she once got a frilly lace-embossed valentine card from Victorian England.  She was all:

ESTHER:  “Faaathaw, is not this lace-infused, linen-embossed, over-the-top valentine’s card simply marvelous?  What say you loan me some of your stationery goods and I’ll make every American woman lust after this manifestation of “true love” forever and forever.  My Valentine cards will be a tribute to the purest form of love and the start of a Valentine revolution!”

That was then:  1840

Valentine Esther Howland Design

And this is what we’ve descended into now . . . 2013

Valetine Teddy Gift timesunion dot com


So 173 years later, lovers (men especially) must turn into consummate event planners for one day, lovers must become psychics who can accurately guess every whim of their beloved, and checking accounts must be depleted and drained to feed the restaurant, flower, candy, and hotel industries (worth about 18 billion
dollars) once Cupid’s arrow strikes its target.  The Valentine fails are legendary (I’ve had a few of my own).  Nothing ever turns out like we’ve planned:  a few Valentine scenarios will be better than anticipated but most will be worse, because shit always happens when you least expect it, because we’re humans.  The industry manipulations are too entrenched to throw them all overboard and start from scratch but guidance is definitely
needed.  I’m old and I know shit, so over the weekend I set up a “Dalai Mama Epic Valentine Fails website” to take questions from the Valentine road-kill in need of a word or two of wisdom about avoiding epic Valentine Day fails.

Valentine Flowers and candy zazzle dot com Valentine’s Day Card for the Clueless

VALENTINE NOVICE #1: “Dalai Mama, I’ve met a girl I really like.  I’ve never done the whole Valentine production before but I thought, since this girl is so special, I’d rent a limo, take her to a great restaurant, and see where the night ends—if you know what I mean.  But there’s a problem, even though I started looking for restaurant reservations two weeks ago, everything from Manny’s Steak House to White Castle is booked, and no limo company within 200 miles will book me a reservation for under $200 an hour.  Also, did I mention that I just got my first job and I don’t have much money?  Can you help me or am I headed into an epic Valentine fail?”  Signed, Young and in love in Minnesota

DALAI MAMA:  “Of course I ‘know what you mean,’ Val Novice #1—I’m old but I’m not dead!   Yes, you are headed for an epic fail.  Only amateurs go to restaurants on Valentine’s Day.  An average dinner that would normally cost $70 will be sold to you for $150, and the food will be mediocre at best (a restaurant that normally serves a modestly priced fish dish will suddenly only serve high-end steaks or overpriced pasta with lobster and a mediocre red sauce that tastes suspiciously like canned marinara).  All the tables will be pushed together and maximum seating capacity completely ignored so that the restaurant can make up for its January slump, and every word you utter will be heard and judged by the elbow-bumping couples to your left, right, front, and rear. Not to mention that the noise from all the chatter will be cacophonous, and the agitated wait staff will serve you in such a hurried manner that you’ll complete your entire romantic meal in just under 55 minutes so that the 20 other couples can be rushed in to take your place and experience their wind-whipped Valentine dining experience.”

Dalai Mama’s Suggestion

Turn your living space into a restaurant and cook for your cutie (clean your apartment first—especially the toilet).  If you can’t cook, arrange for the local grocery store to prepare the meal, pick it up at the appropriate time and follow nuking instructions (throw away the grocery store bags to maintain the illusion).  Candles, romantic music, dim lighting, no old sock smells, and easy-going and funny conversation will go a long way to your final goal—if you know what I mean.  All women love a man with a sense of humor.  But if you’re humorless, well, I don’t know what to tell you—I can’t help you there.  P.S. If you really want to do the whole limo scenario, have one of your buddies put on a black suit and cap, and pick your girl up with you in the back seat carrying one rose.  (If you can’t afford a dozen roses during the hyped Valentine season, approximately $150-$200, one rose is always better than nothing.)

valentines catalog thong toilette dash humor dot com

“Valentine lingerie”|image from

VALENTINE NOVICE #2:  “Dalai Mama:  I’ve been married to my wife for thirty-eight years.   Romance has never been our thing, but we almost got divorced out of shear boredom last year.  So I started taking the little blue pill, and I was thinking maybe it was time to spice things up a little bit this Valentine’s Day—if you know what I mean.   I was hoping to purchase my wife some sexy lingerie from one of the catalogues that recently came to the house, but it is hard to tell what she’d like.  I thought I’d better get some advice from a woman who is of similar age to my wife which is why I’m writing.  Oh, I forgot to mention that the wife is not the size she was when we first married.  What do you think:  am I headed for an epic Valentine fail?”  Signed: Looking to get a rise in Pennsylvania

DALAI MAMA:   “Dear Val Novice #2:  If you do this, I promise you that your wife will hate you forever.  Since when did you become an expert in women’s sizes?   You say she’s put on a few pounds?  This is an epic Valentine fail waiting to happen.  No man should ever buy woman lingerie, ever—no matter what her size!  That catalogue you received is a “sucker’s catalogue” trying to get you to waste your money on a multi-million dollar Victoria Secret’s industry.  They will sell you anything, including thong underwear that doesn’t even look that good on the heroine-chic model sporting it.  I bet you that it’s edible, right?  (Can I let you in on a little secret?  That shit sounds better than it really is.  Trust me!)  If the lingerie is too big, your wife will think you think she’s huge and it will make her sad (and you won’t be getting’ nothin’ that night), if it is too small, she’ll think you’ve been watching porn and she will kill you.  (And why does everyone keep asking me if “I know what they mean”—I’m not a sexless idiot!)  What if we switched the idea to another ass?  What if your wife bought your chubby little droopy ass some sexy underwear she saw on David Beckham in an underwear ad?  How would you respond?  (Never mind, don’t answer that; men are generally clueless when it comes to how they look in inappropriate underwear.)”

Valentine chocolates instead cartoonstock dot com fran cartoon

Image from

Dalai Mama’s Suggestion

Don’t do it—don’t ever do it.  Give your wife a gift card and let her buy what she thinks is sexy.  Besides, now that you’re taking the little blue pill, methinks she could be wearing a burlap sack and you’d still be dancing around the house singing, “Let’s get it on!”  Good luck!

Valentine single source remember dash neverlosehope


VALENTINE NOVICE #3:  “Dalai Mama, I HATE VALENTINE’S DAY!   I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!  I can’t believe you’ve made my pain even worse by doing an entire blog about Valentine’s Day.  This ersatz “holiday” cuts through me like a knife.  (Did I mention that I hate it?)  Nothing makes me feel like such a loser than everybody showing off at the office by getting flowers from their boyfriends and husbands.  For the past five years or so I’ve been sending myself flowers just so I won’t feel like such a dork, but this year I’m not even going to bother.  I am what I am—alone, and I’ll die alone.  Most of my friends are engaged or married and the only guys I know are gay.  (Did I mention that I hate you for reminding me that I’m alone?)  Signed: 3rd Wheel in Toronto

Dear Val Novice #3:  “Are you through feeling sorry for yourself?  ‘Cause the Dalai Mama don’t play that shit.  Life is what you make it and if it gives you lemons then you go out and make goddamn lemonade.  Dalai Mama didn’t marry her man until she was in her thirties, and “White and wonderful” (WW) was worth the wait.  In fact, had I married any one of the jerks I met before WW, I shudder to think what my life would be like today.  Have you seen Valentine’s Day by Gary Marshall?  It’s an awful movie, but the scene worth watching and emulating is the “I hate Valentine’s Day” scene where all the unattached girls meet for dinner with a piñata heart and beat the shit out of it with a baseball bat as they recount their horrid past relationships.  Excellent therapy!  So grab your single friends—guys, gals, straight, gay, divorced, widowed—and get all dressed up, and cook a great dinner for each other and then pulverize your own version of a piñata heart.  And then declare your urban family love for each other—being there to watch each other’s back no matter what is needed.  I guarantee you that Valentine’s Day will work for you and not against you.  P.S.  It helps if everybody gets a little bit drunk!

Valentine Day Movie party scene

Jessica Biel in “Valentine’s Day”|Warner Bros. Pictures

I am discovering that we are all the victims of the money-grubbing Valentine industry.  Our minds have also been poisoned by storytellers like Nicholas Sparks and Hollywood’s formulaic romantic comedies (boy sees girl, girl sees boy, both fall madly in love, both fall out of love, both run languidly through the wheat field/airport/city
street/along the beach declaring their undying love in the last five minutes of the movie and live happily ever after.  Life is just not like that.  Relationships are up and down, in and out.  Romance is real but is only meant to be a beckoning call to attract each other and sexually connect us.  Once that has happened, then the real work
begins—the “growing in love” part.

The romantic love we feel toward the opposite sex is probably one extra help from God to bring you together, but that’s it. All the rest of it, the true love, is the test.”—Joan Chen

The sooner we untangle ourselves from the commercialism of Valentine’s Day and search for what makes us happy as individuals and what makes those who love us happy, the better off we’ll be as people and lovers.  Trust me—it has nothing to do with money and over-the-top treacle romance.  It has more to do with the “c” word:  commitment.

Valentine growing old together dave granlund cartoon

My parents circulate the room hand in hand . . . Soul mates. They really call themselves that, which makes sense, because I guess they are . . . They have no harsh edges with each other, no spiny conflicts, they ride through life like conjoined jellyfish—expanding and contracting instinctively, filling each other’s spaces liquidly.  Making it look easy, the soul-mate thing.  People say children from broken homes have it hard, but the children of charmed marriages have their own particular challenges.”—by Gillian Flynn from Gone Girl

 “True love doesn’t happen right away; it’s an ever-growing process. It develops after you’ve gone through many ups and downs, when you’ve suffered together, cried together, laughed together.”Ricardo Montalban

  “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”—Lao Tzu

 “I don’t understand why Cupid was chosen to represent Valentine’s Day.  When I think about romance, the last thing on my mind is a short, chubby toddler coming at me with a weapon.” —Author Unknown

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on February 10, 2013 in Uncategorized


Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Dalai Mama’s House of Love

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  Love can occur in a fifth of a second, and falling in love hits the brain like cocaine does “causing euphoria-inducing chemicals to be released in 12 areas of the brain that work simultaneously,” according to The Medical News Today.*

That explains why we are so obsessed with the concept of romance as Americans.  Life is so hard and unpredictable, who wouldn’t want to remain perpetually high on love?   I mean I “loves me some romance,” and I would kick any man out of my bed who couldn’t deliver in that department.  But having been happily married for almost 34 years, I know that romance alone just doesn’t cut it (it ebbs and flows and never burns as red-hot as in the beginning).  It would be like having a diet of all desserts, but no protein, veggies, or grains.  Everything good about the body would decay, and so it is with marriage when it’s all sizzle and no steak.

Romantic love is when the chemicals in your brain kick in and you feel an emotional high, exhilaration, passion, and elation when you and your lover are together.—Sheri & Bob Stritof from The Everything Great Marriage Book (Adams Media).

I have discovered the problem with romance is that it is great when taken in context with a proper diet of true love, commitment, selflessness, loyalty, and grace, but it is a real bust when left to its own devices, and if most people were being honest they’d agree.  But online dating sites, bachelorette reality shows, and Hollywood chick-flick producers earn a fortune packaging romance as a commodity and, we the consumers, hope it will lead us to that perfect mate for life where we will live happily ever after.

Those were my thoughts when my husband WW (“White and Wonderful”) and I took our seats one Friday night for a dinner to recharge our romantic batteries after a week of having our asses kicked by life.  In my purse was the latest copy of Washingtonian magazine’s “Marriage: Making Love Last—and Who to Call When It Doesn’t (advice for everyone, including retired generals and their biographers),” which I wanted to talk to WW about to see if I could extrapolate a blog from it.  But before I could mention the magazine theme this month, my attention was drawn to a rather odd man sitting across from us.

Sitting in a booth all alone was a nebbish-looking man (the spitting image of Paul Giamatti as Harvey Pekar in American Splendor), wearing a cheap, ill-fitting suit, and nervously bouncing his legs up and down underneath the table as if there were jumping beans in the soles of his feet while his eyes lit up expectantly at every pretty dark-haired white woman who entered the restaurant door.  My initial reaction was to feel instantly sorry for the lonely diner and to feel an instinctive impending dread of what was surely to come.

Paul Giamatti as Harvey Pekar in American Splendor

ME:        Babe, babe, look at that guy over there.   I think he’s on a blind date.  I wonder if it is one of those online dating thingies.  Can you say:  ‘Here comes the Dalai Mama’s blog for the week’?

WW:     No, I cannot say anything about anyone without a vodka gimlet and some sustenance, and I need my “Lucille Ball” wife not to distract me from that goal or I’m going to keel over from hunger, and I won’t be a happy camper, believe you me.  Waiter!

ME:        Seriously, honey—work with me here!   Pretend this is a James Bond plot unfolding.  We’ve got one nebbish-looking white man, slightly paunchy, with a glass of red wine in front of him, and a single red rose dropping petals faster than I can say my name (who does that anymore—the single red rose thing?).  From the looks of it, he must have bought that rose three days ago because it is as limp as a wet noodle.  The dude can’t take his eyes off the entrance of the restaurant and he is sweating buckets.  Look at his armpits and the front of his shirt—he looks like he’s having hot-flashes.  Poor sweetie—I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

WW:     “Poor sweetie?”  What do you mean, “Poor sweetie.”  How do you know he’s a sweetie and not a serial killer?  I’m telling you “my chocolate Lucy,” mind your own business.

At that moment, an unusually tall brunette in 5-inch heels, a pencil skirt half-way up her ass, sporting a short biker leather jacket, and dog-collar choker, with her hair pulled up in a stern ponytail and her eyes encased in Goth carbon-black eyeliner and eye-shadow strolled into the restaurant looking defiantly for the guy that matched the picture on the paper she carried in her hand.  Just as she was about to turn away and go back out the door, our waiter sprang into action and rushed over to the woman who looked like an escapee from a dominatrix film and asked if she was looking for “Dennis” ?  As her eyes lit up in pleasant surprise, the waiter said, “No, I’m not Dennis, he’s over there” and gently steered “Ms. D.” to Nebbish’s table.   The woman’s back stiffened and you could tell she was not down with the guy who looked nothing like our handsome waiter.  As soon as I saw Ms. D’s reaction to Mr. N, I knew that lover-boy had not been honest about his profile and Ms. Dominatrix was going to kick his ass over the dishonesty, if given half the chance.

MS. D:   So you’re Dennis, huh?  I’ve just got to say this, right up front and right now (God, I’m so tired of this shit); you don’t look anything like your online picture.  What the fuck—the waiter looks more like this picture than you do!  Wait a minute. . .is that it, did you submit the waiter’s picture for your profile?

MR. NEBBISH:  Um, no . . . it’s mine.  Ha, ha . . . don’t get bent out of shape over a silly picture.  I mean what’s a picture compared to a heart?   At least I wasn’t crass and I didn’t send you a photo of my “little Dennis” (if you know what I mean) like some stories I’ve heard about online—right?   I mean, no, I didn’t mean to say that; I mean, yes . . . I mean maybe my waiter friend helped me out just a little and loaned me one of his photos. . .  Oy!

As “Dennis” tried to present his decimated rose to compensate for the awkward “little Dennis” joke and his pathetic life, he inadvertently knocked his glass of red wine all over the table.  And as I watched the back  of the woman’s neck turn beet red as she sat down across from her buyer’s remorse, I frantically searched for anything to write with to help hapless Dennis salvage his date (it turned out my lip liner would have to do). The woman’s back was to me, but I could see the man’s face without a problem and he could see mine.  I heard nose-diving snippets of one-liners from Mr. Nebbish accompanied by the high-pitched laughter of a hyena as his friend, the waiter, tried to rush in menus and sop up wine to help out the situation, while Mr. Nebbish’s nerves and the pitch of his voice became more strained:  “Ha, ha, you are just like my twelve-year-old daughter—she gets a little potty mouth when she can’t have her own way—you better sit down ‘little girl’ (ha, ha, ha)!” At that point I held up my frantically scrawled napkin sign for the nebbish that screamed, “Abort, abort . . . DROP THE KID ANALOGY—it’s too soon,” but Mr. Nebbish ignored me and heroically forged on with his rehearsed death march, “I thought we’d start with a bottle of bubbly, and then move on down the road to my favorite gourmet restaurant (Chipotle) for a romantic dinner.”   At that point, WW went to the men’s room (either to really do his business or escape my embarrassing, busybody antics), and I grabbed WW’s napkin and scrawled another sign, “No, no dude—can’t you see she’s just not into you—ABORT, ABORT—save your pride—save your balls!!” 

When Dennis started throwing out more desperate lines like, I rode in on my Harley” (sure you did, Dennis!) and “Maybe I could bring my daughter next time” (Oh, Dude, there will be no next time!), I saw Ms. Dominatrix excuse herself to go to the restroom all the while proclaiming she wasn’t blowing Dennis off, and that she’d be right back.  As she left with her coat and purse (that’s a sign, nebbish-man, for the next time—nobody takes their coat and purse to the restroom unless they are leaving), I shook my head in devastation for Dennis and mouthed the words, “she’s not coming back, Dude—I’m so sorry!”

 A Chuck Ingwersen Cartoon

After the angry Dominatrix stormed off into the blue, and the dejected Dennis rode off into the sunset, WW and I talked about what we had witnessed for the rest of the evening as we cuddled and sipped champagne on our couch while a romantic comedy streamed across the TV in the background.  We had met some forty years ago, five years after the landmark civil rights case of Loving vs. Virginia that made it possible for interracial couples to marry without being in violation of the law and being thrown in jail for disobeying that law—especially in Virginia, the state where we currently live.

ME:        Honey, do you think we would have ever met if we had to rely on a dating site?

WW:     No!  You weren’t into “white men” in your radical 60s, remember, so you would have never checked “open to dating all races” even if it had been legal and socially acceptable.  What was that famous line of yours:  “There ain’t nothin’ no white man can do for me!” 

ME:        Well, you wouldn’t have checked the box that said “I’m into hot black chicks,” either.  The only black person that you ever remotely knew was the mailman and only because your dog, Trixie, used to chase him down the street and try to bite a hole in his ass.  That damn family dog of yours never chased anybody else except the black mailman.  I can’t tell you how relieved I was when your mother wrote and told us that racist dog of theirs had died.

WW:     But that’s my point:  we had to meet each other in settings far away from our families, had to work with each other in a theater group as we grew as friends, and had to mingle with each other as part of a group of accepting and inclusive friends to break down those racial barriers, or our love would have been squelched before it could begin.   Who knows if that couple tonight could have made it or not?  All they saw were the stereotypes of each other.  They never got to the issues of the heart.  Maybe nebbish-man was the softening around the edges dominatrix-woman needed and she was the steel nebbish-man needed to strengthen his spine.  It was one nebbish and dominatrix demolition derby in that restaurant tonight and “never the hearts did meet.”  This online stuff is a tool but only a tool.  If people don’t really take the time to go below the surface, it’s a faulty tool at best.  But once a couple gets together, I suspect it takes investment and hard work.  And speaking of investment, I’m tired of talking about those people we saw tonight; let’s turn off the TV and put on some music of our own.

(And so to the mellifluous strains of Marvin Gaye singing, “Let’s get it on. . .” WW and I forgot all about nebbish-man and dominatrix-woman and did our own wild thing—the romance that keeps us “keeping on” even after all this time).


I am discovering that “romance” is simply the ticket into the amusement park:  the sexual attraction that hooks up the lovers and gives them a jump-start at the beginning and continues to turn their engines throughout the course of the relationship.  But romance was never meant to be the whole enchilada (mixed metaphor intended).

I may be wrong, but to me, marriage is 90% hard work and 10% “a thrill up your spine.” There is no “perfect solution” to finding a perfect mate to take this journey with—no matter what eHarmony promises.  I believe you can meet a potential mate wherever people gather—either randomly “falling in love” on a glorious sunny day or methodically letting an algorithm guide you to each other through a dating service.  Your husband or wife will either be the best thing that ever happened to you or he or she will be the relationship from Hell and no matter how you met your mate, both people will still have to give it all they’ve got to make it work and keep the marriage vibrant.   People always ask me, “what’s your secret to a long and fulfilling marriage,” and lately I’ve been telling them, “It’s the ‘4-Hs’:

Humility:  a thirst for knowledge of a higher power (cause you could be wrong about so much shit today as well as tomorrow) and the ability to readily express to your God and partner: “I’m sorry; please forgive me!” goes a long way in going the distance

Humor: a ready ability to laugh at oneself and never take oneself too seriously—ever

Honor:  a never-ending sense of wanting to empower one’s partner and love what he or she loves—always

Hearing:  an ability to be the world’s greatest listener to your partner’s incessant chatter (hopes and dreams)—knowing that you love it when he or she listens to your bullshit

Humility is so important.  It’s easy to get wrapped up in your frustration about the ways your spouse is an asshole.  You need to remember that the ways you are an asshole are being tolerated by your spouse.”Richard B.Smith, DC Psychologist Specializing in Marriage and Family counseling as tagged by Washingtonian/Dec 2012

“Develop a poor memory.  That is, do not collect grievances and throw them in your spouse’s face.  No one wants to hear, ‘This is just like the time on our honeymoon when you . . . .’”—Emily Yoffe, Who Writes the Dear Prudence Column for Slate as tagged by Washingtonian/Dec 2012

“A great marriage is not when the ‘perfect couple’ comes together. It is when an imperfect couple learns to enjoy their differences.”― Dave Meurer

“Marriage has no guarantees. If that’s what you’re looking for, go live with a car battery.”—Erma Bombeck

“One of the nicest things you can say to your partner, “If I had it to do over again, I’d choose you—Again.“—Unknown

WW (“White and Wonderful”) and the Dalai Mama blogger

*Christian Nordqvist.  “Fallin Love Hits the Brain Like Cocaine Does.”  Medical News Today.  Medilexicon, Intl., 27 Oct. 2010.  Web.

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Posted by on November 26, 2012 in Uncategorized


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