Getting Older…

…sucks sometimes.

Actually–it sucks all the time, right?

Now I’m not talking about your everyday normal shit like wrinkles or saggy skin, although those two particular things make me want to destroy every reflective surface on earth. We already know those things are going to atrophy as we age. They’re predictable and inevitable.

What I’m talking about is when your chassie starts altering itself…


Here’s my latest problem:

My damn hip tends to crack a lot as does my back, especially during sex. So, after much deliberation, I decided to bite the bullet and head off to see the chiropractor.

Now, I’m one of those people who hates to waste time, so I usually try to book the first appointment of the day. Easy in, easy out!

At 8:45 a.m. I pull into the parking lot. At 8:52 a.m. I walk in the door, sign in, then take the clipboard with the forms I’m asked to fill out. By 8:56 a.m. I return the clipboard to the lovely receptionist. She flips the page checking my cognitive prowess, then asks me to follow her. She leads me into an exam room, then tells me the ‘doctor’ will be in shortly. So far so good.

I sit down as directed and wait.

Then I wait, and wait, and wait some more.

This is BULLSHIT because, not only is the doctor late, I’m stuck in this crummy, dreary 5 X 5 room with nothing more to read than National Geographic’s from the 1970’s.

Rule #1: All medical offices should be required by the law of etiquette to provide current reading material…or be on fucking time!

Thirty minutes later he walks in with my chart in his hands.

“Good morning Mrs. Brown,” he says.

Well, YE-FUCKIN’-HAW, I think to myself.

My time is apparently not as important as his time.

We’ll see about that!

“Mrs. Brown?” he says again.

I decide to ignore him and continue reading about why Orangutans asses are  so red because we should all know the answer to this age-old question.

He clears his throat several times trying to get my attention.

“I should be done here in about 27 minutes.” I say checking my watch. “Why don’t you just have a seat doc. I’ll be right with you.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late. I had an emergency,” he says.

Yeah. I can see the emergency because he forgot to wipe the fucking cream cheese off the side of his face…asshole!

I finally acquiesce and put the magazine down.

“So. What is it you’re doing when your hip and back crack?” he asks.

I unbutton my pants and lower my zipper a few inches…

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

“Hey…you asked me what I was doing when my hip cracked, right? Just give me a second,” I say defending my actions.

“Wait just a damned a minute, let me get a nurse in here,” he says, his face turning a gentle shade of red. He slams his hand onto the button next to the door. Without missing a beat, he slides along the wall until he reaches the box of latex gloves, grabs a couple, retreats back to his spot by the door, then quickly dons said gloves.

I do not share with him that I’m only unbuttoning my pants because I’ve got one of those rip roaring errant gas bubble’s jetting around in my gut. You know the kind. It the one that settles right at the waistband of your pants and you need to relieve the pressure by any means possible or else that suckers gonna blow right then and there. It’s probably because I got up too early, drank far too much coffee that morning, and the shit, shower, and shave was not a fate-accomplis.

Regardless…I wait for his partner in crime.

I have to say though, I’m a little creeped out that he thinks I’d go there’ with him!


If I was going for that, I’d have chosen a much younger and better looking doctor. Perhaps even one that was more gynecologically adept.  Maybe even someone who had a little Chippendales experience under his belt.

This guy…NOT SO MUCH!


A few minutes later…enter Nurse Ratchet.


This nurse is like a wall sized condom.  Talk about your protective barrier! Sheeesh! This gal’s ankles have to be at least a size 22, and by the size of her bicep’s, it’s pretty apparent that she’s a definite gym rat.

She looks at me then back at the doctor.

“Where were we Mrs. Brown?” he says as though the formality of calling me ‘Mrs. Brown’ somehow protects him now that Nurse Ratchet’s standing between the two of us.

He’s still standing completely across the room though and he doesn’t look like he’s going to come any closer.

I’m thinking to myself this guys a real chicken shit. He’s a “doctor” for God’s sake. He must see all kinds of crazy stuff.

“So, when I twist like this…” I say rotating my hip. This of course makes my zipper undo a little more.

There’s no response. Nothing. Nada. Not even an ahem!

“Didn’t you hear that?” I ask.

“Hear what?” he says.

“My hip,” I say.

What?  This guy’s so fucking afraid I’m going to drop my pants or something that he’s completely forgotten why I’m here.

“Oh…No I didn’t hear it,” he says looking down at the floor.

“Well, maybe you should come a little closer, maybe put your hand right here so you can feel my crack.” I say.

“Um,” dribbles from his mouth as his face changes to a brighter shade of red as the words ‘feel my crack’ sinks in.

“DOCTOR, hellooooo…” I say, hoping to rein him back down from wherever his mind has drifted.

I glance at his groin just to make certain his pleasure center is still officially shut down.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” he says.

But he still doesn’t move.

Finally, Nurse Ratchet steps up to the plate for him and shuffles towards me. She pulls my pants down a little then puts her hand near my groin.


This woman should have ‘Ice Queen’ written on her name tag instead of…What? This does not look like a Cindy.

Now, I know there’s no rules about this, but there should be.

RULE #2: Medical practitioners should be required to warm up their hands or anything else that’s going to come in contact with your body!

“Okay, do it again, NOW,” she says. “I’ll feel your crack for him.”

I feel a little uncomfortable with the location of her hand, especially after noticing that she’s not wear a wedding band. And it’s no consellation when I spot the bad-ass tattoo peeking out of her short sleeved uniform.

“Actually, if you put your hand on my back, you’ll probably feel it better,” I manage to spit out as I continue to adjust to the temperature of her paw.

“Are you telling me how to do my job, ma’am?”


She doesn’t know me well enough yet to pull the ‘maam’ card.

I bite my tongue a little because I’m trying desperately to force the words in my head to stay there until she removes her hand.

Instead, I twist my body a little forcing the cracking of my bones to be noticeable.

“Did you feel it?” I ask hopeful that she will now remove the thawed paw.

“No,” she says.

She tells me to turn around so she can check me out from the back. I oblige.

She pulls my pants down a little and pushed my shirt up out of the way.

“Mmm!” she mumbles.

“I know,” I say. It’s obvious she thinks we’re soul sister now that she’s spotted my tattoo, my tramp stamp.

“Interesting choice,” she says as she runs her fingers down my spine towards ground zero. Interestingly enough though, her touch has become just slightly softer, as though she feels closer to me.

“Is that Canadian bacon?” she asks with a certain amount of perplexity in her voice.

“Indeed it is! I had it done many years ago after several shots of tequila. It was funny at the time but now…well, now it’s become permanent back fat, a tribute to my heritage,” I tell her. “My muffin top loves the company though.”

“Doctor, you should come and look,” she says, which causes my sphincter muscle to clamp down involuntarily.

“Why do you want him to see that?” I plead.

“I want him to see your back ma’am, not your unfortunate tattoo,” she says with a slight tone of indignation in her voice.


I know what she’s up to. This whole experience is quickly going to hell in a basket. I begin to rethink my position, that maybe I should just zip up and skidaddle, when I hear her say, ‘right there doc’!





Menopausal Moodiness…

…I don’t fucking think so.


Did I say that out loud? MY BAD!

I think women across the nation, hell, across the world, have been badgered into believing this by our husbands, children, bosses, enemies, and we certainly can’t leave out the pharmaceutical companies, right?

Hell…without us hormonally imbalanced women, imagine what would happen to their profit margin.

Can’t they just face the fact that sometimes we just wake up plain old bitchy on occasion?

The fact is, we have our good days, and we have our bad days!


Some of the bad days get handed to us on a fucking silver platter, right?

It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that everyone in your house:

1. leaves every cupboard they open open

2. leaves the fridge door open just a crack so that everything is pre-warmed before cooking

3. leaves their clothes wherever they happen to land because they know the laundry fairy will be by soon (and by-God they know she comes every day)

4. leaves their bed unmade

5. leaves their dirty dishes wherever they’ve recently eaten

6. leaves the milk out after breakfast so that when you finally take a minute for yourself to have that refreshing afternoon cup of tea–it dribbles out in clumps.


It couldn’t possibly be that, when the hubby looks at you with those puppy dog eyes because he’s got a boner that needs some attention, you’ve got to somehow conjure up enough energy just so you can shake your head NO because you still have to finish everything on their mommy/honey-do lists!

It couldn’t possibly be that we have to somehow fit our ‘outside life’ into our ‘inside life’ like it’s no big deal? Like we can do our eight hours at work, then do another eight at home just to catch up?


Some days I have to attend a meeting at my local Bitches Anonymous just to blow off steam so I won’t take the law into my own hands! (These meetings are usually standing room only by the way!) Actually, I hate going to these meetings because they’re such bitches it doesn’t leave me much room to shine!

But I digress…

Every once in a while you have that SPECIAL, MAGICAL day you’re always dreaming of.

You know, the one that:

A. doesn’t include a single hot-flash where you can steam vegetable just by pressing them up against your skin.

B. doesn’t include pee escaping your vaginal canal unexpectedly ruining your God-given right to sit without having to cross your legs to hide the shameful fact that you’ve lost control of your vaginal muscles.

C. Your hair somehow becomes manageable leaving you looking less Medusa like.

…or for once…

D. Clothes that don’t try to take you out at the waist by strangling you or causing that gas bubble to erupt at the most inopportune time.

We live for those days, right girls?

…to be continued!

Marriage can…

…take a bite out of your freedom that’s for damn sure. But I like it.

I’ve been in the business for more than thirty years so I guess it’s safe to say, it kinda suits me to a ‘T’.

I find great comfort in knowing that, when I walk back into my house at the end of the day, there’s more than just the dog there waiting to stick his wet muzzle up into my butt crack just so he can relay his feelings of:

‘Mommy, you’re home, I missed you! Where the hell have you been all day? Can I have a treat? Where’s my dinner? Rub my belly! Can we go for a walk?’

Not that a simple kiss on the cheek wouldn’t do the same thing.

It may seem like a cheap thrill, and it is, but I’m easy. I’ll take them whenever I can! Time passes too quickly and cheap thrills don’t arrive on your doorstep all that often!

My theory is ‘when opportunity knocks, open the freakin’ door’!

Yes, this is my dogs favorite thing to do. On a good day he’ll nudge me this way from the front door all the way into the kitchen.

Don’t get me wrong here. I appreciate the fact that he likes my ass just as much as the hubby does.

Now, whether it’s that his nose is itchy, as it always is, or whether this is truly a sign of love, I don’t mind so much because I know he needs me, he cherishes our time together, and he can’t stand it when I’m gone too long.

Again, this is where the hubby and dog are similar!

Hubby also likes to push his nose into the crack of my butt, misses me when I’m gone, wants a snack, wonders where dinner is, loves to have his belly rubbed, then wants me to walk around the block with him.

Only difference here is that I don’t have to carry a crap bag, nor do I have to wipe the drool off…

Oh…wait…that’s wrong because sometimes I do. Sigh!

Yes, this is where two great minds think alike!

Over the years, I’ve come to the understanding that husbands are a lot like dogs. Their bark is usually worse than their bite. It’s usually only a slight flesh wound if they do in fact decide to take a chomp out of you, because guess what? They’re not going to do anything that would  jeopardize their their butt-sniffing privileges.

They can be:







…as well as a plethora of other emotions.

Husbands master the art of ‘puppy dog eyes’ better than some dogs sometimes, especially when it comes to sex.

They’ll gladly roll over so you can rub their bellies and whatever else is in the region. Usually this is where the wagging tail comes in.

If you use your wiley womanly ways in just the right way they’re also easily trainable. You can bet your bottom dollar on that!

You throw them a bone and you can be damn sure they’re going to sit up and beg until that bone is secured tightly in their teeth. Or in hubby’s case, until the boner…I mean bone… is securely in your teeth!

Mornings are especially interesting at my house. We have this routine you see.  It’s not always exactly the same but for the most part it’s our thing. It’s been happening for years and years.

I get up in the middle of the night in order to have some peaceful quite writing time. This is what I tell myself anyway, but of course I know the truth. It all boils down to menopausal instability, which includes those fantastic hot flashes, the inability to turn my brain off, and the sudden penchant for undisturbed housecleaning.

It’s exactly the time when I think of all the things I don’t want to think about.

If I slept longer than three a.m. I’d have to do a pulse check. I’ve made peace with this over the years because I don’t have a choice. It’s really not so bad, except that I can no longer stay up later than nine p.m. Some say this makes me boring.

I say to those people–Fuck Off!

In the middle of the night the world is peaceful.

The kids are snug in their beds. (Or on the couch, or curled up on a chair…)

The dog’s rolled over on his back on the couch in the den, his legs moving as thought he’s chasing someone or something, and hubby, well, he’s also laying on his back, lost in dreams with a big old smile on his face. Obviously he’s dreaming about me!

The best part of the early morning for me happens after the coffee’s brewed. I’ve got my electric blanket cranked to high. It always seems to be cold in my office so my son thought this would be a brilliant Christmas gift a year ago. What a thoughtful boy. I love it, I use it, and it serves its purpose wonderfully. I’ve discovered however, that if you sit on electric blanket long enough, you’ll actually put your vagina to sleep.

First time that happened I thought my horny had finally emerged, but upon standing, it was soon apparent that there was no feeling whatsoever, nada, nothing. Not even that pins and needles sensation. I tried touching it once just to make sure it was still there, and even that gave me no sensation. I no longer sit on the blanket. This is not a cheap thrill moment!

I have enough trouble pumping that sucker up to the point where it wants to see a little action, so putting it to sleep is the last thing in the world I’d do on purpose!

So, somewhere around seven in the morning I hear this warbled voice barreling down the staircase. It’s a cry for coffee. Yes, I’m a sucker (or maybe I’m the well-trained puppy). I stop what I’m doing and go to make his morning java.

So here comes the habit thing…

As I go up the stairs, I either hear the TV or I don’t.

If I hear it, that means that there’ll be no booty call. If I don’t hear it…well…that’s a whole different ball game.

That signifies it’s game on.

If this is the case, then I must decide on whether or not there will be a random grab from my underwear drawer.

Oh! To lingerie or not to lingerie, that is the question!

This is always a stab in the dark, especially if this occurs before the sun’s up. I keep my panties and bra’s in the same drawer. If you’ve ever made the mistake of trying to put a bra on in place of your underwear, well, ‘Ms Gina’ will end up looking a little like an Eskimo girl, sporting an Afro and lovely, lacy earmuffs. It doesn’t happen often, but it has.

Losing momentum sucks, right?

I guess at this point in our lives we have to seize the moment at every given moment!

That’s hubby’s theory.  Actually now that I think about it, he’s always ready, willing, and able.

But, it has to be quick. I’ve got two kids to get out the door so speed is important.

This is where all those Evelyne Wood Speed classes I took years ago come in handy.

to be continued…