Vol. 2, Post #84 The SEPTA bus ran over your grandmother's foot, and married men who want to "chat"

As the Thompson Twins sang, "Lies, Lies, Lies, yeah..." My weekly sex tips for girls* (*girls who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds, (people with readers).

Like two great tastes that go great together (and, below, that’s the 1970’s Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups commercial with YES, Robby Benson and Danny Most!), let’s unpack a few lies as old as the hills, as it pertains to things that people think they get away with in life and love.

Also, lemme shout out to my pal Stephen Reses, who captivated my teenage heart for several years back in the day. I believe we shared some slow dancing and maybe a few kisses but in any event, if you’re reading this, hi Darling!

OK...it’s a toss up…hmm, should we start this week with some married man’s lame attempt to be “friends” on social media or do you want to begin with one of the greatest lies my mother ever attempted to tell me? It’s SUCH a great lie, by the way, that the incredible Joan Rivers once told me, “I’m stealing that story and making it my own!”

I’m going with my mother. So here’s the story.

My mother was a champion liar. Like, where to begin? This story starts the week after my father unexpectedly died in 1994. My darling now ex-husband and I were in Philadelphia at my parents’ home for the funeral and shiva (the Jewish mourning period; shiva is the Hebrew word for the number seven. Yes, it’s seven days long if you do the whole thing and it’s intense. This probably happened on Day Three or Four, because I remember the house was still full of people, but there wasn’t so much activity that I couldn’t answer the phone.) The phone rang. It was Saks Fifth Avenue.

“Hi, is Dr. Aronson available?”

“Hi, this is his daughter. Sorry to tell you this, but Dr. Aronson passed away. Can I help you?”*

*And sorry/not sorry to tell YOU this, but my father was a bastard, an under-medicated bipolar sufferer who was deeply ashamed of his diagnosis, and as a result, was abusive and reactive. I can’t say I was in a deep state of mourning, but rather, was focused on how my then-husband and I would be left to clean up whatever mess he left to my family, which, as you know if you’ve been reading me here, was VERY messy in itself.

“I’m so terribly sorry. Well, we don’t have to sort this out now, but Dr. Aronson was making down payments on a fur coat and he missed the last one, so we wanted to follow up.”

“A fur coat? What kind of fur coat?”

“A mink coat. I believe a gift for Mrs. Aronson. Is this really a good time to talk? I can call back…”

“No, it’s a great time to talk. How far along is this coat process? I mean, do we have to finish it or can I just cancel the order? My mother does not need a new fur coat at this time.”

At this point, my mother had wandered into the kitchen and was watching/listening to me on the phone with Saks, a questioning look on her face. My now ex-husband had also passed through the kitchen and I motioned for him to stick around.

I continued, “We’re sorting out my parents’ affairs, as you can imagine, and I’m sure that no one needs the added expense of paying for a new fur coat.”

Saks Woman jumped right in. “Again, I’m so sorry for your loss. The coat has not been assembled yet. I believe Dr. Aronson had just selected pelts and the cut of coat, so we can certainly cancel it.”

“Great. And can you credit whatever payments that he made to his Saks account? I’m sure there is a balance.”

The Saks Woman put me on hold to check but that was CLEARLY not necessary, in my mind. Both of my parents had TERRIBLE shopping addictions. My mother already had, by the way, four or five fur coats. I hate fur coats. Not because of PETA, but in general. Although PETA is correct.

Saks came back on the line, “Yes, there is a balance on the account. We can credit what Dr. Aronson has paid towards the coat to that. Again, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

As I thanked her and hung up, I turned to both my mother and my then-husband. He was already shaking his head. My mother had tears in her eyes, asking, “That was Saks? What did they want?”

I calmly told them both, “Daddy was putting payments towards a fur coat but luckily, we can get them refunded to your Saks account. And…Mom…stop crying. You know that we have a ton to work out and a new fur coat is not in the mix.”

This was very very true. My parents had bills galore, a SECOND mortgage on the house they owned, as well as the ongoing care of my younger sister, who is neurodivergent and not terribly high functioning in any way. I could only imagine the credit card bills that we hadn’t even begun to dive into. A new fur coat? Fuck that shit.

Over the next few months, as we sorted out my parents’ ATROCIOUS financial problems, my mother brought up that now phantom coat, teary-eyed, with longing, but every time, my then-husband and I firmly told her, “You need a new fur coat like you need a hole in the head. Let’s figure out if you can even keep this house!”

Life went on.

About six months later, I was in Minneapolis to see the new Mall Of America (I was the retail editor for a magazine and was writing about the various shops, the amusement park, the restaurants, all larger than life — oh the 90s!) As I got ready to go to the mall and start walking the endless corridors, the phone rang in my hotel room. It was my wonderful Uncle Arthur.

Arthur was my mother’s uncle, so in reality, he was my great uncle, and indeed he was a GREAT uncle. He was my bastion of sanity in my crazy family, witty, wise, so much fun. A closeted (so sad) gay man who felt very at home with me and my pals, even though he never came out. I adored him. My son is named after him.

When I traveled for business, I often gave Arthur my itinerary in case he needed me, or just wanted to yak. Boy, did he have a story for me that morning.

“I just took your mother and Bea (my grandmother, his sister) over to Zinman’s (that was the cold storage place where people stashed their furs in the summer — can you BELIEVE how old I am right now, telling you this fucking story? Fur coat storage???) and as usual, they acted like they were the Queens of England. God, that new fur coat that your father bought your mother? It is GORGEOUS!”

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, Arthur!?!?!”

“Yeah, your mother had a new fur coat in her haul. She took it out of the bag and modeled it for the staff. It is practically floor-length. Again, I can’t believe the way they both carry on there. It’s embarrassing.”

I quickly updated Arthur on what happened with Saks calling at my father’s shiva, how there was not supposed to be a new fur coat, etc. And since he was familiar with my parent’s insane spending issues, he groaned alongside me.

“Don’t get me in trouble!” he reminded me. “I won’t be able to spy for you if you rat me out. Promise me that you’ll figure out a way to sit on this for bit while you simmer down.”

So I simmered down. I lasted maybe six days. Then I called my mother.

“So, I heard that Arthur took you and Nana over to Zinman’s to store your coats for the summer. I really really REALLY wish you hadn’t gone against our wishes and paid to have that fur finished for you. We (my now ex and I) explained to you precisely why you shouldn’t spend money on a fur coat that you didn’t need, and how you should use that money to pay off your incredible credit card debt, but more importantly? You told me you DID take the credit for the coat and apply it to your Saks bill. What gives?”

“Well, it turns out that Saks had already finished the coat. Even my initials were sewn into the lining. I had to pay the balance because it wasn’t returnable.”

“Nope, that’s a lie. I spoke to the woman myself.”

“Also, I didn’t even use my own money to pay the balance. Your grandmother’s foot got run over by a SEPTA (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority) bus in Philadelphia near Wanamaker’s and she gave me the settlement money for the coat.”

I remember taking the phone away from my ear and just staring at it in disbelief.

“Mom, I’ll call you right back.”

I hung up and dialed my grandmother.

“Nana, did your foot get run over by a SEPTA bus?”

My grandmother was incredulous, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nana, I’ll call you right back.”

I hung up and called my mother again. I kept my voice and tone fairly calm but I was seething.

“Mom, do you know what’s even worse than you lying to me like this? It’s that you think I’m stupid enough to believe these lies. It’s completely dismissive and disrespectful, when you consider all the help that my husband and I constantly give you as we hold your hand through Daddy’s death and getting you back on your feet; it’s unbelievably and outrageously offensive, these lies; and quite frankly, I’m just not going to put up with another minute of this anymore. I’m done.”

“That coat…” she whispered, catching her breath and then doubling down.

“That coat…was…THE. LAST. THING. THAT. YOUR FATHER. EVER GAVE ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

At this point, she was shrieking beyond the decibel of the demon in “The Exorcist,” bellowing for Father Karras to show himself. I hung up.

For the rest of my mother’s life — and we went through fairly long periods of time when we did not speak, because of her spending habits, because of how she was ruining her life via her shopping addiction, etc. — that story defined our relationship. Basically, I never believed a word she told me after that. Sure, it’s a ridiculously hilarious and super sad accounting of a sick woman who only wanted others to think her a grand lady in our posh suburban community (and if you ever meet me in person, ask me to yell at you the way she yelled at me about that coat, and I guarantee you won’t believe how loud she got. Even Joan Rivers was awe-struck when I acted it out for her years later) but it’s also a neon-bright example of why we feel so nauseated with disgust when someone attempts to hoodwink us with lies that even a kindergartener wouldn’t attempt.

Which brings me to the married guy who requested to follow me on Instagram last week. Since he also subscribed to this Substack: Dude, you’re not fooling anyone.

Ok, so this guy requested to follow my (private) IG account from his business account as well as from an account that he created as a lark, I guess, something that goes along with his cannabis-centric lifestyle. Since my account is private, I saw both requests and perused the biz one first. Business account looked legit, so I accepted the requests and then sent him a DM, asking, “Hi Friend, remind me how we know each other?”

This is my usual MO when a stranger wants to follow me — I ask if we’ve met before and eight times out of ten, the answer is that we have either met briefly via another pal, or, that this stranger wants to chat about business.

The guy was neither of those circumstances. He just thought I seemed like a “cool girl” with a “fun and sassy vibe” but that yes, I was the demographic for his business, so we traded a few "what a coincidence!” stories about media, advertising, old school journalism, etc.

Since neither of his accounts had his name listed on them, I asked him his name and he told me.

Then, I asked him if he had an IG account under his name and he said yes.

So…I asked him why he wasn’t requesting to follow me under his actual name, and at the same time, I ALSO noticed he was starting to “like” photos in my feed. Photos of me. Me in a bathing suit this August at the beach. A selfie of me taken even earlier in the summer. He wasn’t looking, or liking, the images that I posted from work events I was proud to have created. Nope, he was liking on me and my tits, on me smiling at the camera with a fresh coat of lipstick. I didn’t like that ONE GODDAMN BIT.

Exhibit A below. Look, I was a Nice Lady and blurred out his IG handle and the photo.

Before he dug even deeper into my account, which was clearly coming (this has happened before. Suddenly some guy who says he wants to chat biz or talk about Adult Rock Academy or wants a ghostwriter to work on his book with him is liking EVERY selfie I’ve taken over the past five years, um, no thanks) I decided to stop the madness.

And, just as FYI, although I doubt ANYONE would push back against me for saying what I’m about to say? I’ll post any photo of myself that I like, anytime I want, as dressed/undressed as I want. I like the way I look. And I’m sure that there are people who oogle my photos who are married. But that doesn’t mean I have to play along with a married man who is, after all, CLEARLY following me from his “other accounts” so that either I won’t see that he’s married, or, so that his wife won’t know that he’s following me or chatting with me. I Googled this guy. Yup. Married.

So I asked him if he was the kind of married guy who like to chat with woman other than his wife. Big surprise. He is.

He went on to tell me that wasn’t trying to be a “letch” or likewise, that he wasn’t trying to be secretive, but guess what? I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, nor did a SEPTA bus run me over in downtown Philadelphia, thereby rendering me unconscious and in a coma, only to wake up and feel suddenly suspicious of idiots who say they want to be friends but who really want to stare at my tits and then most likely start in with innuendos about how their wives don’t fuck them anymore, or whatever.

Married men, single women are not your amusement park. Also, it’s actually lecher, not letch. And you are. Gross.

Leave you with this.

Up top, when Joan spoofed the Blackglama mink ad campaign, “What becomes a legend most?” with this comedy album. Oh Joanie…the material I could feed you now…