Liar, Liar, Pant’s On Fire…


Back in the day, you know, when I was younger, as many of you know, I was an actress!

In those days, we never thought about padding our resume with our ‘special abilities’!

One of mine was that I was a horse person.

I got called for an audition and upon arrival was asked if I could jump horses!

After the initial panic faded, all I could manage in the way of a reply was…

Umm…how tall are the horses?”

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EMPTY NESTERS…


…got it going on.

I see a lot of my friends on Facebook posting things like, ‘just had the most romantic evening laying about naked in front of the fireplace, drinking wine, having sexual relations with the hubby. So nice having the house to ourselves now’!

We tried that once, but after the kids complained for the umpteenth time that they were tired of stepping over us on the way to the kitchen, we had to put a kabosh on that one.

Another friend posted this one.  ‘I can’t believe how much I can get done in a day now that the kids are out on their own’!

Bite me! If I had the house to myself I could probably write a book a day! But no, I spend most of my time chasing after them to get things done, do homework, clean your room, blah, blah, blah!

I’ve tried everything to reach this point but I guess I’ve still got a few more years to go.

Last week I got so tired of the kids just hanging out at home doing nothing, where I work, clean, cook, pick up shit and answer constantly to my African spiritual name ‘MumCumHere’, I started making calls to see how I could get them out of the house sooner than later.

Ring, Ring…

Good Morning, Rapid Pest Control

Me:  Hello. I need to get rid of some pests.

Pest Control Operator:  Okay, we’ll be there in an hour. Is anyone still in the house?

Me:  No…..just the children!

Pest Control Operator:  Well Ma’am, they’ll have to get out of the house.

Me:  Why? There’d be no reason for you to come out then!

CLICK!

So that didn’t work, but I’m a woman of stamina. So long as I’ve got my tramp stamp in place (as in my estrogen patch) I can go at this for a long spell of time in order to reach my goal. I got out the yellow pages and started flipping through it until another number caught my eye.

Ring, Ring…

Good Morning, LA Adoption Services. How can I direct your call?

Me:  Are you looking for kids up for adoption?

Operator:  Um…yes ma’am, that’s what we do.

Me:  I have two that are available. I’m done with them now so they need a new place to stay so you can have them for free.

Operator:  Ma’am, are you alright?

Me: I will be once you take the children.

Operator: Um…

Me:  Look, I’ve already had a consult with an interior decorator. I need the oldest one’s bedroom. I’m converting it into an office for myself. Would you at least consider taking one at a time?

Operator:  Ma’am…exactly how old are your children?

Me:  25 and 18.

Click!

There were a few more calls made but seems like there are no takers out there.

Guess the only way they’re going to get out is going to happen the old fashioned way–over time!

Sheesh!

VAGINA’S…


…are what separate the wild and wonderful from the pack.

Women today are a power to be reckoned with. We can rule the nest as well as we can wreak havoc on the world.

A new study recently released states that there’s ‘three new kind of women’ out there. Only three? Really?

Anyway, first up is the mid-twenties to mid-thirties INDEPENDENT women. She’s doing it her way. Her mantra is get out of my way, fuck with me and I’ll take you out, brainstorming, designer clothes wearing, stiletto capable, thong goddess, single, or single in a relationship kind of gal whose yet to plunge into motherhood.

You know her. She’s your best friend. Nothing’s off-limits. She’s taking the world by storm. She’s not your mom’s mom. She talks about everything from Tampax to Stocks and Bonds.

She is ‘Occupy The World Via Vagina!’

She’s driven by passion like no other. She’s not afraid of the big bad wolf because she is the big bad wolf. HER bite is far superior to her bark, she’s brainy enough and far more likely to utilize her womanly ways when needed to skirt, pounce, instigate, take by surprise, or render useless any one trying to stand in her way.

She can stop time simply by wearing an unpadded bra under her T-shirt on a cold day.

She’s gonna make it or break it so you’d better get out-of-the-way or she’s likely to plow right through you. She’s put off child-bearing in order to make her mark in the world. She’s curious and furious. She’s just as at home in the kitchen as she is in the corporate world.  She can flip flapjacks as easily as she can flip you off should you try to become a roadblock. She’s that ‘don’t fuck with me, and no I don’t have a headache, I’m just busy’ kinda gal!

Love her, but stay the hell out of her way while she’s blazing the trail, because if you don’t, you’re likely to get left in the wake of her voracious appetite for life and all things wonderful.

Her flame will never be doused! This is her time to herd the cattle so to speak! She’s going to rock it until her maternal clock kicks in and says, okay, time to put a bun in the oven. But don’t think that that alone will stop her, make her dead in the water, because women like this cannot be turned off of their life by their birth canal! She’ll likely be finalizing a big business deal right up until that last push and then…….voila, she’s mom now! This doesn’t stop her, it just changes the game plan.

Second up is the mid-thirites to mid-forties Over Achieving Mom. Now, she too can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. The difference is, she’s still able to pay for the bacon herself. She’s still proving that she’s got life under control and can do it all.

She’s still in pretty good shape and has become furiously adept at disguising any remaining baby bulges that have lingered, because altering the worlds perception of her is NOT. AN. OPTION!  She’s the “Thanks Spanx” generation woman. She’s old enough to be comfortable letting it all hang out, but she’s competitive enough still to say ‘watch out world, I’m still here, still rocking it, don’t fuck with me, because even though she may be home flipping pancakes or frying eggs, she can still muster up enough strength to wrap the spatula around your bloody neck without missing a beat.

She’s likely the one to take this challenge for what it is. She’ll take advantage of her Mom-ness and market that just as easily as she’d market a new product. She’s still got it, and trying to fuck with that could lead to repercussions no man should or would want to suffer under. She’ll love you as easily as she could kill you. She’s mamma bear now, leader of the pack. Large and in charge. Having a vaginal birth put’s her at the front of the pack because she’d discovered that she can endure anything. She’s a train heading down the track, horn blaring, light’s flashing, and still has the ability to plow through anything that gets stuck on the track. She may slow down here and there, take a breath, enjoy the view, nap in the middle of the day, but when she’s on it……she’s ON IT!

And then…

She’s got it all. She’s achieved Goddess Level. She’s an Alpha Lover. She’s still got the bull by the horns and she’s not afraid to use them. She doesn’t care what you think. She’s survived work, children, and aging. No one’s opinion holds water to her. She’s as tech savvy as the younger generation, but is far ahead of the crowd because her insomnia allows her so much more computer time while the rest of the world is resting. She’s into the finer things of life yet has no problem dumpster diving for hidden treasures. She’s softened enough, sometimes literally, yet her will holds steadfast in that she can shine, stand out, flourish under any circumstance. She still does it her way no matter what.

She’s earned the badge of mid-life and devours it.

She’s already developing her second act. Her new self emerges with ease. She can take a day off when she wants because her train rolls steadily along. After all, she built the tracks herself.

She doesn’t have to push as hard as her earlier years. She’s set herself up in such a way that pressure is only something that a doctor checks. She’s got it all now. Work, family, love, money, friends. She’s become the Matriarch of her expanded world. She’s back at the helm and running her life smoother, slower, but with the same passion as always. She hasn’t forgotten either that she can still stop time with that unpadded bra and T-shirt. The T-shirt may have to be slightly longer to accommodate things that have moved south but she okay with that. She’s gonna rock it till there ain’t nothin left.

Bad Valentine’s Day Gifts (Part II)


I remember one year in particular when hubby brought home this tiny little, sweetly wrapped box. I was atwitter with anticipation.

I ripped off the wrapping and looked at the box.

Lip Plumper….

Mmm…………………….

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the child side of myself felt insulted, but being the nice girl that I am, I kept my tongue in check. Maybe it meant nothing, a harmful little gift he’d found out about from…..Mmm……………

I digress.

Now I know there is nothing sexier than those puffy pink lips that have become so famous, especially here in Hollywood. But Really? Really?

I accepted the gift graciously, then spent the next hour looking at my lips in the mirror, trying to figure out why they needed to be plumper. Apparently, I have inadequate lips. Bastard!

My theory in life has always been, ‘if a little is good then a lot would be better’! I mean, seriously, how much plumping can this stuff really do.

Well–some of us find out these lessons the hard way.

I decided to try it the next morning.

I work out early and usually look like crap so I thought, what the heck, let’s give this stuff a test run. I brushed a thick layer over my lips, then headed off to the gym. I work out at Curves (for obvious reasons–Actually, it’s just that I can’t afford the clothing you need to work out at 24-hour-fitness). The gals at my gym have no problem saying what’s on their mind. And under most circumstances I love this.

Anyway, about ten minutes into my routine, one of the gals said, “Pssst, you’ve got something on your chin.”

When I reached up to wipe whatever it was away, my finger poked my lip. WHAT? WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

I got off the machine and dashed to the ladies room. When I looked in the mirror……there ‘IT’ was! My bottom lip had plumped so much it had taken over the lower part of my face. That would explain why every time I took a drink of water on the way to the gym it would trickle down my chin.

I looked like I was ready for my Hollywood debut on ‘Housewives Of Beverly Hills Surgeons’!

When I got home, I showed the hubby what a real lip plumber looked like.

He didn’t see it coming! Actually he couldn’t see anything for about a week until the swelling went down and he could open his eye.

~//~

Another year he got me one of those ‘Naughty Or Nice Masks’! I actually thought that was cute. It was soft, and pink, with fuzzy stuff all around the edges. What the hell I thought. Let the games begin.

The problem ended up being ‘the element of surprise’, thus brining out the naughty side of the gift!

I startle easily.

I could not see him.

I did not hear him.

When he touched me with his cold hand, my knee-jerk reaction put me in full Karate mode.

Doctor told him the cast would only be temporary–5- 6 weeks at most!

~//~

Last year, hubby came home unexpectedly in the middle of the day, so I decided to take things into my own hands.

I said, “Darlin, instead of a gift, let’s just play around!”

He lit up like a fucking firecracker.

Next thing I knew…………..we were playing 18 holes at the Country Club!!!

~//~

There were several other things that came and went in a flurry over the many years we’ve been married. Things like arousal oils, sexy books, and scents for the body. We’ve soaked in the tub of bubbles while drinking a ton of bubbles. We’ve lit candles in the bedroom, which is always romantic (except that one time the curtain caught on fire) . We’ve taken walks holding hands. We’ve dined out. We’ve stayed in after sending the kids off somewhere else just so we could have the house to ourselves. We’ve really tried to make the best of Valentines Day!

To be honest, I give him a lot of credit for his efforts. He is a romantic guy. Bless his heart. I do so love him!

But honesty, I think Valentines Day has become too commercial. The ads on TV, on billboards, in the newspapers and magazines, and on the radio are all about throwing cash at something that may or may not be appreciated. There’s too much pressure to please!

If only we could simplify this?

As the old saying goes…”No woman will ever be truly happy on Valentines Day unless she finds a man with a chocolate penis that ejaculates money!”

Part 2…(Libido boosters)


…PLEASE REFER TO PART ONE  FIRST…


“Libido Steel…make you…” he finishes by gesturing with his groin moving in that humping motion.

Holy crap. This guy suddenly looks like he’s ready to go right then and there. I immediately scan his crotch in search of a spontaneous boner, my bad,  but it’s as flat as a pancake.

“You’re sure I’m gonna wanna…” I finish by gesturing the same humping motion because, at this point, I figure I’ve got nothing to lose here.

His eyebrows go up and down as though he’s trying to dislodge something from his forehead and he grins at me.  He sets the bottle into my sweaty palm and I wrap my fingers around it like it’s some kind of treasure.

But wait, out of the corner of my eye I see his other hand reaching towards my right breast.

WTF?

Did this mean I still had it? Did he get all worked up by my push, push, groin thrust? Was I hot to him? Were my girls turning him on?

OMG!

I instantly react with the speed of a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun. I intercept his approaching paw with my best jiu-jitsu move and my do-jo cry–Keyah. I give him the evil eye!

He steps back and rubs his wrist. As close as we’re standing I can see a red welt rise where I’d just smacked him.

He stands there in complete shock, complete disbelief! His eyes fill with fear.

He takes two more steps back from me then raises his shaking hand and points at my right breast.

I look down and see there is a rather large ball of white thread sticking to my black sweater. It probably came loose from the coat I’d been wearing earlier.

“You got shit on your shirt lady,” he says in his defense.

“OMG…I’m so sorry!” I say as I pull the straggler off and toss it to the ground.

“Maybe you need hormone too bitch…help brain relax,” he says making his move towards the cash register.

I’m thinking this guy must be fucking telepathic because I had run out of estrogen. I’d been out of it, and out of my mind, for nearly a week because I’d forgotten to order it.

I try to hand him my credit card.

“No lady, you set card on counter, I pick up myself.”

I try to gather what’s left of my brain and defend my action but the second I try to speak his shushes me.

“You pay me, get out,” he hisses at me.  “You no come back.”

He rips my card a new asshole through his machine and tosses it back on the counter, then sets the sales slip down so I can sign it. As I reach for the pen he steps back as though he knows what my arm span is.

“Can I have a bag?”

“No.”

“Okie dokey then.”

I hang my head in embarrassment and do as I’m told. As I head towards my car I can feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. I know he’s watching through the slats of the window blinds to make sure I’m really leaving and I’m pretty sure I hear the clank of a lock being engaged.

But then I thought to myself, who cares, I’m about to get my horny on. I’m about to get my mojo back. I’m going to be that sex machine I once was. The boner goddess. The MILF! I may actually find that spontaneous orgasm. Whehaw!!!!!

I get in my car and nearly have to pry my fingers off the bottle so I can read the label.

I look at the main ingredient and burst out laughing.

‘Horny Goat Weed.’

It’s then I realize I probably could have just as easily gone to the local feed store to get this shit.

No one’s home when I get there so I crack the bottle, tip it towards the light so I can inspect the pills inside.

WTF?

Was I supposed to swallow these things or were the suppositories? I have panic attacks when I have to take those little Advil tablets, how was I possibly going to manage these? I look at the label and read the instructions.

Take one daily for maintenance and up to four two hours before sexual activity. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my brow.

OMG! Now I was going to have to get anxiety medicine just to be able to swallow these suckers.

But I was on a mission. I’d just have to bite the bullet, literally, and down these horny goat weed suckers any way I could.

Flash forward one week.

I wasn’t feeling the sex thing yet but one thing I did notice immediately was that whenever I was driving, my attention kept wandering towards the long tall grass that runs parallel to the freeway. I’d start to feel hunger pangs followed shortly thereafter by the urge to pull over and graze.

I even started noticing barn yard animals in the most odd places. In Los Angeles proper it’s pretty rare to see anything other than a cat or dog.

I found myself wanting to visit a friend of mine’s ranch up in the Santa Monica mountains because I’d recently attended a woman’s horse retreat there and had a vague recollection of a very handsome billy goat wandering about.

I started answering questions and responding to statements in an odd way.

My son came bursting through the door after school one day so he could tell me a joke he’d heard that day. It was one of those really sick jokes if you know what I mean.

All I could say was “Eweeeeeeeeee,” followed shortly by a few “Bah, bah, bah’s” as his warped humor wrapped around my brain.

I’d catch myself late at night staring down at my front lawn from my bedroom balcony.

I ordered every version of “Grazin In The Grass Is A Gas” from iTunes.

One day my husband came home and I was laying face down in the tall cool green grass.

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

“Mowing the lawn,” I said.

“Why is your hand down your pants?”

“I got an itch.” I respond.

What? Wait a minute!

Maybe it was starting to happen. Maybe it wasn’t just an itch. Maybe, just maybe, my vagina was finally getting the message.

BINGO!

I looked up at him staring down at me and cocked my eyebrow.

“Kids aren’t home yet. Would you like to step into my office?”

Oh yes, the world we live in, the world I live in, is a far better place when we can chemically alter it!

Hot sex…


…is something we all strive for. Who on earth wouldn’t? There’s absolutely nothing else like being immersed in someone else’s skin.

You know what I’m talking about. First you flirt, or ogle if that’s your style. Then you feel that little tingle start somewhere deep inside. Your toes start to curl up,  and then suddenly your body’s on fire. You’re entire being is pulsating like a giant time bomb. The anticipation of a good orgasm keeps you in the moment. You start the countdown 10, 9, 8…

You’re just about there when all of a sudden your mind wanders and you wonder whether or not you switched the laundry from the washer to the dryer…

Crap!

Hot sex to me is when I accidentally burn my finger cooking dinner and I start hopping around the kitchen screaming ‘fuck me, fuck me’ while I dash to the sink to run cold water over it.

Of course this could actually lead to hot sex because if hubby’s in the house and he here’s this gut wrenching scream, the next thing you know I hear him sprinting through the house to get to me. I’ve seen him actually breaks a sweat after maneuvering the furniture in the living room, running hurdle over the dining room chairs, where upon entering the kitchen I can see he’s already got his pants undone, and yep, there it is, the boner. Unfortunately, there are just some fuck me’s that cannot be resolved with anything short of cold water.

Now don’t get me wrong here. I am uber-grateful that after more than thirty-one years of marriage he still wants to jump my bones! He’s forever grabbing my ass at the most unpredictable times, and while this is all well and good, I often times wonder whether this is a sex thing or is he just checking to see if I’ve been working out or not.

Sometimes he’ll rub my shoulders only to let his hand wander down the front of my shirt. Sometimes I stop him and sometimes I don’t, it all depends on whether or not those little stray nipple hairs have been removed or not. It is not cool to have more hair on your chest than your husband. But all in all–it’s all good!

Yes, in my world, hot sex is something that happens when the air conditioner is not working. Oh there’s plenty of steam and sweat but I can’t actually say it’s caused by body movement.

There have been times when we’re engaged in ‘you know’ and I get caught up listening to my spine cracking every time I move. Yes, at my age, it seems like all my bones are a little cranky when put to the test. My hip bones doth protest on occasion too and I wonder if I’ll be stuck in that god awful position forever. I do not want to walk around looking like I just got off a horse after a day of riding bronco bulls.

I got an e-mail in my in-box the other day. You know the kind. The ones that randomly show up and peak your curiosity. Well I clicked on the link and low and behold I got schooled on how long a man can have an erection. Forty-eight to seventy-two hours is what they claim.

WTF?

Are there really men out there willing to walk around like that for two or three days in a row? Is this stuff safe? Does it come with a side order of nitro glycerin for your heart? I’ve seen all those televised ads for Cialis and Viagra and they always have a warning about “if you have an erection longer than four hours” you should contact your doctor. With this product if your doctor is not female and horny, what’s the point of seeing her?

What makes their ad particularly appealing to many consumers out there is that you can get absolutely shit-faced drunk and this stuff, ‘ViagPURE’, will still have the desired effect, and better yet it claims it can save a failing marriage and can make your sperm shoot farther and with more precision than an arrow leaving a spear gun.

Hellooooo!   Is the distance sperm can shoot something we give a lot of thought to? Mmmmmmmm! I guess I may have to ponder on whether there are actually any benefits to this.

Now unless you’re a famous golfer claiming ‘hole in ones all the time I don’t see the point. Or maybe, just once,  for two or three days I would ‘get’ the point and then wonder what’s the point.

It’s already bad enough that I don’t get enough sleep. I can’t imagine staying up for that many hours in a row just to wreak the benefits of this man enhancer, nor would I want to.

And what about the kids? Don’t you think they’d wonder where we were for those three days even though we were home the whole time? And how would we explain the bags under our eyes and the fact that once we emerged from wherever we’d hidden away that we could no longer move? That we actually might need medical intervention.

I don’t know, call me old-fashioned. I like a good romp in the hay but I don’t think my gina would be as acceptable to participating in this kind of marathon sex any more. Of course this would all boil down to whether I gave in to one of those middle of the night commercial I told you about earlier. You know…for VD–vaginal dryness. Maybe this is where that old adage comes in–the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

Now I’ve known a few men during my lifetime who proclaim they can go at it all night, but seventy-two hours under the best of circumstances seems, well, a little excessive to me–for anything.

I can’t help thinking that with all the blood running down there to keep that sinking ship alive, what the hell is keeping the rest of the boat floating? Doesn’t the rest of the body need some of that blood? But then again, women have always said that a man thinks with his dick so maybe the brain IS getting exactly all the blood it needs. I don’t know, call me crazy.

I say forget about a drug that keeps it up like the energizer bunny and instead just get one of those miniature life alert bracelets and attach it directly to the penis. You let your imagination run wild until a situation ‘arises’, the life alert goes off, and whammo.

“Oh honey….did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It’s beeping.”

“Oh…I thought that was the oven timer.”

“No, it’s me, hurry up, turn off the oven. We’ve got about two minutes.”

“But it’s a souffle, it’ll deflate without the heat.”

“Yeah, well…so will this.”

Maybe I’m just old. I do not want to have sex for seventy-two hours in a row, nor do my hip bones.

Let’s be real hear.

If you have the ability to stay awake for several days in a row you’re probably still in your twenties and don’t need this shit anyway. If you’re an alcoholic in a failing marriage, hello, it’s probably not lack of sex that’s causing your marriage to fail.

Suppleness is…


…a major concern for women of every age. Many of us who’ve passed the hormone marker, as in we have none any more, are constantly searching for the perfect combination of serum’s that will lift, soften, and moisturize our skin.

We’re constantly in pursuit of these miracle fluids or creams that can reduce those wretched wrinkles we lovingly refer to as smile lines that form around our eyes. We want something that will rid us of those hideous brown spots that seem to manifest themselves out of nowhere. We want something that will reduce the swelling and dark circles that appear underneath our eyes while we’re sleeping. You know the ones I’m talking about–the ones that make it seem as though you’ve recently been involved in some sort of brawl. We want something that will eliminate those spidery veins that leave parts of our body looking like road maps. We want, we want, we want!

It’s an endless quest. It’s expensive and time-consuming trying to track down these products that promise the fountain of youth but we do it anyway.

No big deal right?  Vanity know’s no boundaries I guess.

But here’s my new dilemma.

Because I’m a major insomniac I watch television in the middle of the night when my writer’s mind experiences what is known as writer’s block. You can pretty much be guaranteed that most of what’s on during these early morning hours are infomercials.

What’s amazing and particularly cool about that is that it makes me realize I’m not alone, I’m not the only woman who rises at these ungodly hours because most of these adverts pertain to women’s problem.

I’ve witnessed women losing 20 pounds of belly fat in ten days, women growing a full head of hair back in less than a month, women losing weight by popping a pill a day without having to change their diet, women getting a face lift in under ten minutes, and eewwww, women getting their butt-hole bleached for some God awful reason. The list goes on and on.

The exercise infomercials that really irk me are those freaking cardio routine ones. You know the ones. You can’t keep up, you trip over your own feet, and you have to take a five-minute break between every rep because your lungs no longer have the capacity to suck air in at that kind of speed.

What’s really a pisser is that usually there’s not one single female in the video who needs to lose one single stinking pound. Most of these bitches…I mean girls… are between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. They already have protruding rib cages, and that perfect little line that runs down their perfectly concave belly defining their tight little abs. Their hair remains perfectly in place. Their makeup does not run. Their perfect teeth glow like neon chicklets as their highly glossed pink surgically altered gargantuan lips part in smile. Their breasts, which are usually bursting out the top of their little skin-tight half-shirts, remain pert and immovable, and not one single ass cheek bounces around.

Never ever do they show some fat-ass woman wearing baggy ass clothes, sweating her fat ass off while gasping for air as they try to keep up the pace. What the hell is up with that?

Where is the reality here?

Okay, so I have to admit that once in a while I’ll bite the bullet and work out with them to make the time pass quicker. I’ll grab my resistance ropes or my little weights and follow along. I’ll work hard enough to get to the burn they talk about and I’ll continue until the fail point but then I stop because my heart is sending out that message ‘you stop or I’ll stop’.  At that point all I want to do is bitch slap the smile off their faces.

Oh yeah, I’ve been sucked in many times. I’ve picked up the phone within that golden ‘ten minute time limit’ to get the deal on their program or pill or cookie or whatever. I now own more exercise equipment than most gyms, most of which can be found hidden away in my 15 year old man-childs room. He loves that I like these infomercials.

Yes, I am constantly being barraged in the middle of the night with a plethora of images and information on how I should be taking care of my body.

With so many things to already worry about in order to have a somewhat reasonable appearance,  the last thing I ever thought I’d have to worry about is VD.

Yes, you heard me right–vaginal dryness.

At my age I’m apparently supposed to be worried about this. From what I understand now, almost forty percent of women my age suffer from this affliction.

‘That’s just fucking great’ I’m thinking to myself as I watch this stupid commercial that’s somehow slipped under the FCC’s critical eye . Like I don’t have other things to worry about, now I have to worry about that little sucker too!

What a bitch!

So there I am at three in the morning wondering whether my vagina is worn out after fifty some years of workin’ it.

Has it gone the way of my face?

OMG!  Say it isn’t so!

The thought of wrinkles and whatnot down there sends a shiver right through me. Should I go get this stuff and moisturize just in case, or should I just let sleeping dogs lie?

If you think about it a vagina get’s put through its paces over the years.

A good night of sex is like sending your ‘gina’ to the gym. Sometimes the work out’s slow and steady and sometimes it’s fat- burning cardio speed. Either way I’ve always considered this a good thing.

Aside from the good exercise as stated above our poor old vagina’s have to endure years of menstruation, which is both a blessing and a curse. Then, when we decide to have babies, we pray that it’ll play along when it’s time to give birth because it’s got to stretch itself far beyond what it signed of for as that little pink bundle slides out into the world. That’s a work out like no other and all we can do afterwards is pray that it’ll use common sense and somehow return to its normal size.

Seeing this commercial brought to mind a question my daughter asked me several years ago.

“Have you ever queef’d during sex?” she asked.

That was the first time I’d ever heard that word.

“Of course I have”, I replied without blinking an eye.

My assumption was that it was when some  sort of epiphany that happened during sex.

She laughed her ass of then went back to her room at which point I hightailed it into my office to look it up in the dictionary.

“Queef: (verb)…a vaginal fart during coitus.

No wonder she laughed. I’d definitely experienced that once or twice but I’d never given it a name.

All this time I’d thought it was just my vagina trying to catch its breath. My bad!

I digress.

Maybe those ‘queef’s’ were a sign of some sort. Maybe that’s the signal that you’re headed towards a vagina that will soon be reminicent of the Sahara Desert. One that is awaiting the presentation of an oasis in the form of vaginal moisturizer.

Based on its location it’s not easily accessible to your own eyes. The thought of asking the hubby about what he see’s down there is completely out of the question. This is in line with ‘if you don’t draw attention to a problem people won’t notice it’.

I think this is a gimme here!

I guess all I have to do now is decide which way to go here. Will I work under the premise that  ‘knowledge is power’ or ‘ignorance is bliss’ on this issue.