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Here are some of Rachels newest Articles



Expiration Dates and Dating

@ Rachel Gladstone Nemuth


There was a time when putting expiration dates on food products was not the norm. We had to guess how long we could keep perishables in the pantry or fridge. But now milk, yogurt and even beer, have a ‘best if used before’ date, which has saved me, more than once, from poisoning myself. So wouldn’t it be great if the same technology could be used to determine the shelf life on a new relationship? At least we’d know when it might begin to turn sour or if, like a Twinkie, it would never get stale.
Think about it. Wouldn’t it be great if you could predict the half-life of a romance before you invested in all the new lingerie and got your hopes, and the hopes of your girlfriends, up? Like a lot of women I know, I am like Sherlock Holmes when it comes to first dates. I examine the subject, trust my instincts, make a plausible assumption about a man’s character and level of sincerity, and give the whole thing a little time to percolate and then dump his ass before he can dump mine.
If you want to take first-date torture to a whole new level then you must try speed dating, the musical chairs version of the fixer-upper. Several single women perch at individual tables and several single men make the rounds for ten-minute interviews in the hopes of meeting “the one”. It must be the brainchild of that dieing breed: true believers in love at first sight, or at least chemistry at first sight. But even thinking about it puts my brain on sleuth overload. Honestly, at this point in my life, I’d be happy to date someone I wouldn’t be mortified to be seen with. It’s tough out there.
That brings me to those well-intentioned friends of mine who have tried to fix me up with ‘the perfect guy’ one too many times. I know they mean well, but the problem is that they are using a whole different rating system than I am. After all, these over-eager matchmakers are always happily married and just want everyone to enjoy the wedded bliss they’ve found. Plus, since your break-up they never see you at dinner parties, because you have become the odd woman out. We all know how scary a single woman can be in a crowd of couples. So what can they say to a divorcee except “I know this great guy…”

To me, a great guy would come with an expiration code, at the very least, if not a friggin’ guide book and comprehensive bio. There it would be; past relationship snafus and all, laid naked in front of you, so you wouldn’t have to make the mistake of seeing him naked and then learning his secrets. And what about his language? Does ‘Yes’ mean ‘No’? Does, ‘I’ll call you.’ mean ‘Thanks, but no thanks!’ And does the phrase ‘I’m not looking for a commitment right now…’ mean he’s a Serial Bachelor, Master Breaker of Hearts or Commitment-Phoebe from the Zoo of Forgotten Men? Or, does it just mean he wants to sleep with you and God knows whom else? There’s absolutely no way to know. Sure your girlfriend fixed you up with her husband’s poker buddy, but has she ever dated him? Has he even ever been to her house for dinner? And the biggie: is this guy a rebound-fixer-upper that four of her previous friends rejected?
It’s all so complicated that it makes me want to spend all my Saturday nights with my dogs, a pint of Hagen Dais Chocolate Sorbet (no fat grams!) and plenty of time to catch up on everything I have Tivo’d during the week. And that is probably right where you’ll find me, until a man dressed in a Twinkie wrapper comes to call.


 
The Hair

@ Rachel Gladstone Nemuth

“You have a hair!” he shrieked. From his tone of voice, one might have thought he’d seen a cast member from “Night of the Living Dead’ fast approaching. “You have a hair!” he repeated vehemently, as if I were hearing aid dependent. “Growing out of your face. Right there!”
I was wounded by his obvious dislike of the hair, so I paused before answering, to give the moment a bit of drama. “Well, thank you for informing me.” I uttered in a less-than-thankful tone. “I’ll pluck it.” He nodded in a manner suggesting that sooner would be better than later.
While digging through my make-up bag in search of the tweezers, I began to ponder the conversation of a moment ago. Why was I so put out when my husband drew attention to the black, coarse, ugly hair that had sprouted forth, fully grown, from my face? At least it wasn’t gray and curly too. But it was quite long and had mysteriously appeared sometime between breakfast and the cocktail hour. How is such a thing possible?
Deep down inside, I recognized the fact that I should be grateful to my man for helping me avoid a potentially embarrassing social situation. I could have left the house with the hair in tow for all- the world to see. But hell! Couldn’t he have found a kinder, gentler way to break the news that I was eligible to up-and-join the next carnival sideshow that rolled through town? Couldn’t he say something endearing like “Honey, there’s a funny hair growing out of that beauty mark on your cheek. Maybe you haven’t noticed it. You are a bit far-sighted Baby.” Guess not Let’s face it, that conversation would never take place here on planet Earth, where un-realistic expectations crash head on with reality more often than I care to admit.
And another thing. What has happened to civility between the sexes? When did gallantry become optional? Why does the sighting of a UFH (Unwanted Facial Hair) have to inspire the same level of fear and loathing as the sighting of a dead rodent? Was the hair really that awful? Has he never seen a mini-beard in the making, and if not, couldn’t he just, for once, have a little empathy? Control his visceral reaction to the hair that ate Manhattan? There is, I have found, a kind way to say almost anything offensive, especially if you invoke what I like to call, ‘The Southern Disclaimer’. You can say any offensive thing right to someone’s face; as long as it is followed by the pseudo-sympathetic phrase “Bless your heart!” Will my husband ever learn the fine art of delivering un-wanted news in a diplomatic manner? I have my hopes. But I know one thing for sure; as long as I keep the tweezers handy, I’ll be OK.

 
Nurse Nancy

@ Rachel Gladstone Nemuth


My husband is a flu victim who has been the captive of our bed and endless re-runs of bad cop shows for the better part of a week, so feel free to call me Nurse Nancy, even though it’s not my name. To me it seems like he’s been holed-up in there for a month but maybe that’s because my feet ache from tiptoeing around him (or is it really his evil twin?) as I try in vain to please him and remain invisible at the same time.
I’ll admit that when I get sick, I can get a bit whiney and demanding, but I’ve got nothing on my man when he’s flat on his back. Actually, it’s kind of frightening to watch as the good-natured man I married morph in to this belligerent, over-the-top, cranky person. I don’t know whether to pamper him or ignore him, parade through his sickroom with piping hot bowls of homemade chicken soup (‘what is that green stuff floating in there?’ he complains, pointing to errant bits of fresh basil swimming about in his lunch) or run like hell to the Holiday Inn and register under an assumed name.
Many men, I have noticed, have a strange way of rejecting a woman’s nurturing touch, just when they need it most. Why do they find it necessary to assert their manly independence when they are suffering in their sickbeds? Contrary to every bit of logic I can summon, I remain confused as to their reasoning. It seems they prefer to be abandoned, so they can suffer and stew in their snotty juice alone. This would be amusing if were it not so sad. Really! It would be so much easier if they were more like a woman; appreciative of a good pillow fluffing, some tea and sympathy and yes, even some fresh basil floating in her soup. All this leads me to wonder: Is it possible that they are unconsciously resentful towards us because we don’t nurse them like their Moms did?
Mom. Now there was a nurse! Her soup never had fresh basil floating on top. Oh no. Her soup had little alphabet noodles swimming about, which spelled his name over and over, served on a T.V. tray along with an endless supply of saltines and ginger ale. She also had a stack of freshly washed and ironed PJ’s at the ready and hours of attention and TLC to give. Let’s face it, the only way I could ever hope to out-do Mom in the nursing department would be to dress up in a white uniform, replete with high heels, a perky little cap and a nametag that whispers ‘Nurse Nancy at your service’ pinned just above my heaving breasts. But come on! Who has time to prance around in a provocative costume all day? I have responsibilities and recycling to consider.
In the end, all I can do is my best. Every few hours I take my life into my hands, check on him and try to respond to his mumbled requests. I have stocked-up on canned soup, saltines and ginger ale and ate most of the basil-ridden Chicken soup myself (the rest went to our dogs who lapped it up appreciatively). I’m not his Mom, nor do I want to be, so he’ll have to forgo the alphabet noodles on parade, but I do have that nurse’s uniform hanging in the closet, awaiting the time when I finally get my husband back. I hope it’s soon.


 

all articles @ Rachel Gladstone Nemuth/perpetual motion books