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?”

Tattoo’s…


…are such a trendy thing these days. Doesn’t matter whether you’re old or young, fat or skinny, rich or poor (although you can get a pretty bitchin’ tat if you’re loaded), male or female, the ink is flowing freely.

I’ve seen them on ankles, on elbows, on calves, on thighs, on arms, on fingers, on faces, on backs and on just about every body part there is.

Hubby has always been fond of the lower back tattoo. The Tramp Stamp as it’s more familiarly called. I’ve seen big ones, small ones, colorful ones and really, really stupid ones. Some have messages, some have pictures.

All in all I think the fact that you can’t see what the tattoo artist is doing while they are doing it is not so good. Sometimes what you ask for is not necessarily what you’ll end up with. Say you ask for a beautiful angel. Do you really want to walk around with a picture of Angeli Jolli hovering above your ass?

I have discovered though that after ingesting multiple glasses of alcohol, red wine in particular, one should not pick this moment to get a tattoo.

I decided to try one on, but not a permanent one. I’m a chicken shit and my experience with needles has always left me a little gun shy. I went for the henna tat, one that would eventually leave my body without any costly removal fees and pain.

“I’d like something different. I’m Canadian so maybe do something that would represent my country, make it something everyone loves,” I offer in the way of suggestion.

“Mmm…” That was his big response.

Whatever!

An hour later he stands back and admires his work. I can’t help but notice the shit-faced grin he’s sporting.

Another half-hour passes before I’m allowed to get up so the ink will be dry. He knots my t-shirt up around the middle of my back so it won’t brush on the tattoo.

I get up and walk over to the mirror to inspect his work.

“Very funny asshole!”

“Hey, you said Canadian and well loved. It don’t get any more like that than that!”

There staring back at me in the mirror was a tattoo of  the most perfect piece of bacon, Canadian bacon.

Great!

Since I couldn’t put my t-shirt down for at least another hour, I was forced to walk around with my normal back fat hanging out (ie: my muffin top previously hidden by my t-shirt) and now this semi-permanent bacon fat.

Again, I must reiterate.

NEVER GET A TATTOO AFTER DRINKING!

SIZE MATTERS…


…when it comes to certain body parts.

My size issue is my ‘Large Canadian Breasts’! At least that’s how the hubby refers to them.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am in no way complaining! I sooooooo love the girls! They’re not to small, nor are they too big! They are the syrup to my waffles, the cream to my coffee, the…well, you get the point. We’re close, in every sense of the matter! They love to go out and they love to stay home. They like playing dress up as much as they like to swing about wild and free.

Other than my clothes always having to compensate for said ‘grande’ boobs so those designer tops don’t make me look like I’m in a constant state of pregnancy, the biggest problem I’ve encountered is, I always seem to have a bruise on the inside of my upper right arm, which I firmly believe, is caused by brushing my teeth twice a day without a bra on.

I have to admit though, watching a breast gyrate sideways (even if it’s mine) is far funnier than when it bounces from your chin to your belly button. That chaotic arc always makes me bite my tongue. I don’t like that! Nor. Does. Ms. DoubleChin!

Good news is, I’ve recently come to discover that there really is a reason to call them ‘fun bags’!

My next-door-neighbor is like the worlds laziest bastard on earth. The only way he breaks a sweat is by standing in the sun in a supervisory position. He hires people to do just about everything around his house. There’s always a truck of some sort idling away as they repair, renovate, replant, repaint, etc. etc!

But there’s one thing he actually did himself, and this is where the fun bags come it!

He installed several of those clap on-clap off  [‘THE CLAPPER”] devices in every room of his house, including (and this ranks highest on the lazy scale) his garage!

This I’ve discovered allows me to mess with him on a regular basis.

My bathroom window overlooks said garage, and when Girl #1 and my inner upper arm get going, I can here the door opening and closing. I’ve seen him out there.

In the dark.

Staring at the garage.

Scratching his head.

Wondering what the fuck!

Oh, I so love that I have this power.

Since his livingroom is also close to the window, I can turn his TV on and off at will. I can also offer a wake up call in the middle of the night. I get up in the wee hours of the morning and immediately brush my teeth. I figure I save him a bit of electricity because he doesn’t have to use an alarm clock anymore. I brush my teeth, voila, his bedroom light comes on. The only thing I have to be careful about is, I have to pace myself because these devices are just as easy to uninstalled. I do not want the ‘fun bags’ to go idle!

The other morning I almost got busted! 

Lazy ass gets up to go to the gym every day around 5:30 am. Even though I’m usually up hours before, I put off brushing my teeth till then. I stand there in the darkness of my bathroom and wait till he’s about 15 feet from the garage, I see him begin to raise his hands……and then I brush.

I. BRUSH. HARD!

Up goes the door!

I wait for the reaction.

I have to see the look of astonishment on his face, and I can, because he’s standing in the ring of light from the motion-detector lights he had installed above his garage door a little over a week ago.

I can see him look around, trying to figure out why this keeps happening every morning since installing the device.

I have to cover my mouth to stifle my chuckling, which in turn makes me snort through my nose.

My Bad!

Guess my snort came out far louder than I anticipated. I see his eyebrow go up. I knew we should have sprung for those double paned windows when we remodeled.

His eyes start to roam over towards my property so now, I can’t move, because if I do then I risk detection. I hold my breath!

Then the unthinkable happens!

I don’t hear hubby coming down the hall to pee.

Suddenly the lights go on.

I STAND THERE!

LIKE.  A.  FUCKING.  DEER.  CAUGHT.  IN.  THE.  HEADLIGHT’S.  OF.  A.  CAR!

My boob and right arm are exposed. The tooth brush, which my lips have held in suspended animation, falls from my gaping mouth.

“What are you doing?” hubby asks when he sees me body slam myself against the wall next to the window.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you standing at the window half naked?”

“I’m brushing my teeth.”

He looks at my exposed boob and I see the glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Can I help you brush your teeth?”

“No. Thanks. I’m done.”

“Hey…Just tryin’ to be helpful.”

I watch as he trudges back towards the bedroom.

“Can you turn the light off on your way out?” I ask, my back still pressed against the safety of the wall.

There is no response. But his hand slides down the wall to the switch.

The room goes dark once again. I step towards the window and realize the moment has passed.  He’s gone!

The thrill is gone.

My boob is cold.

Oh well!

Tomorrow’s another day, right?

Baby Fat…


…is something that all women have to deal with after that freaking blessed event of allowing a far too large object to slide out of the smallest portal on our body!

Let’s face it girls. We really don’t give much thought to our expanding girth when it’s falls under the guise of ‘baby fat’. As that little sucker grows inside of us we cling to that self-serving deception tactic of “I’ve got to feed the baby” or “I’m trying to protect the baby” with all this added cushion.

B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t!

Pregnancy brain makes us delusional is what I think.

What we’ve really done is stuffed our bloody faces until we look like we’re ready to explode because we think no one’s really watching our weight–they’re only watching the blessed progression of a developing baby.

So, flash forward a decade or two.

You realize your kids are nearly adults now and you’re still carrying around a pile of flab that’s been there since way back when.

Double CRAP!

With the recession like it is now, so many of us are left to our own devices to get in shape because gym memberships are still at a premium. The price of working out one-on-one with a personal trainer is also out of reach for most of us, so what do we do–we start looking around to find the cheapest possible way to get the most for our money.

Hubby and I usually walk every morning at our local park. If we go around the outside twice we can get in about two miles. Unfortunately, when it’s a little cooler outside, we take a shortcut so we can stay in the sun. Hello…short cuts will not get rid of said baby fat.

But the good part is, we find new inspiration during these little treks because every day we’d see different groups working out. You’ve got your boot camps, your one-on-ones, basketball games, joggers…there’s a plethora of people trying to get fit, or as I like to think of it–getting your J-ello to finally set.

One group I’ve notice over the past year is made up of several young mothers and their toddlers. They use the strollers for balance, use their kids as free weights, and all in all, they seem like their having a good time instead of just sweating their asses off alone. They’ve got that camaraderie going on, and from the look on their faces, they really don’t seem to mind the stretching, crunching, or jogging so long as they can do it together.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. You grab a bunch of your ‘baby-fat’ friends who are stuck at home with their young children and you work out together. It’s the perfect world–like minded women at the same place in their life.

So after pondering this idea I finally got brave enough to go ask them if it was an open group and how much did it cost to join.

“We don’t pay anything, we just work out together because it’s more fun to do it this way,”  says the girl who kind of looks like she’s leading the group.

“Oh,” I said.

I notice that they’re all kind of staring at me in that odd kind of way because it’s obvious I’m a lot older than all of them.

“Could I come?” I ask.

“Well…you’re..um…I think you’re a little old for our group,” she says looking me up and down with that smug superior look on her face.

I want to bitch-slap her but I refrain from doing so because this might be my ticket to shed a few pounds without spending a dime so I keep my cool.

“No…I don’t think I’m too old,” I say as I crush the urge to take this bitch down right then and there. “I’m not as old as I look you know.”

The whole pack of them exchange a look, you know the one. I can see them trying to formulate a reason to get me to go away.

“Do you have kids?” she asks because I’m pretty sure she can see the daggers flying out of my eyeballs right towards her heart.

“Yeah, I’ve got kids,” I reply waiting to see where she’s going to go next.

She looks around at the others in the group trying to surmise by the looks on their faces whether or not she should offer me a place in the group. They pull themselves into a little huddle and have a short conference. A moment later they separate and the spokesgirl takes another long look at me.

“Why don’t you come Wednesday…WITH your kid,” she says. “We’ll see if you can keep up with us.”

Oh no you didn’t girl!

I can’t believe she went there so fast!

Yep, she upped the ante by attacking my competitive side. She may very well have opened Pandora’s Box!

Oh well, maybe this was exactly what I needed to hear to motivate me to undo what time and gluttony had done to me.

“Okie-dokie, I’ll see you Wednesday then,” I say.

I can hear them giggling as I walk away.

CRAP!!

I may have bitten off more than I could chew!

So here’s one of the only perks of home schooling. My son is constantly available, and fortunately for me, he has the same warped humor that I do. I know he’ll be game for this, and besides, he loves to work out so it’s game on.

Tuesday rolls around and I go to my neighbor and ask if I can borrow her jogger stroller.

“What do you need a stroller for?” she asks.

I lie and tell her I’m going to be babysitting a friend’s kid on Wednesday.

“Oh, okay,” she says.

Wednesday morning, I get up early, wash my hair, do my makeup, dress in my best workout clothes. I’m not going to let these young she dogs see the real morning me under any circumstances!

I get my son up, feed him so he won’t get cranky, and we head off to the park.

When I pull into the parking lot I can see them off in the distance. There’s five or six of them and they’re already stretching, and sucking back the last drops of their coffee. Why the hell do they look so perky already? I slap my face a few times trying to get that ‘warmed up already’ redness in my cheeks.

I get the stroller out of the back of my car, set it on the ground and try to open it.

Crap!

I guess we should have done a run through at home.

I realize it has some kind of dam fangled lock on it somewhere but I just can’t find it. I look around in desperation, and like a mirage before my eyes, there appears another health nut, a mother, with her kid, in the same kind of stroller, and I know she’s not part of the mommy group I’m about to join. She sees my plight and comes to my aid.

She flicks a little toggle and the god damm buggy springs to life just like when you pull the toggle of the life jacket on an airplane. Oh yeah! That’ll be a story for another time!

I jump out of the way and she laughs at me.

“Sometimes these things have a  life of there own,” she offers.”They take some getting used to.”

“No shit!” I say thinking these things must be manufactured by Toyota.

The smile on her lips turns sour and she glares at me.

I slap my hand over my mouth.

My bad!

I look down at her beautiful little girl who is also staring at me now.

“I’m sorry…that just kind of slipped out,” I say trying to salvage my bad self.

She say’s nothing in return for my apology. She just turns away and heads off with an air of indignation.

My son looks at me and we both burst out laughing.

Okay, so now we’ve got the stroller ready for loading. I look at my son then look at the stroller and wonder how this is going to work.

At six-feet-five inches this is definitely going to be interesting.

Knowing that my son’s in pretty good shape I figure we should be all right. It might take a minute or two to finagle his gangly limbs into it—but come hell or high water—it was going to happen!

My pride and mid-life fat was on the line here.

After ten minutes of pushing, shoving, contorting, and cramming his gangly body parts this way and that, he was sufficiently trapped in the damn blasted contraption.

Was he a happy camper? No!

“I can’t breathe,” he said. “My balls hurt!”

“Oh shut up you big baby,” I said slamming the sunshade down over his head.

Then it hit me. This was so uber-perfect because he was acting like a two-year-old.

I win!

As I approach the group I am met with stares, glares, and more of those WTF looks they’d given me on my initial approach.

I still win.

They never mentioned anything about an age limit—their loss—my gain!

“You didn’t say anything about your son being…well…older,” Miss Perky Boobs says.

“You never asked,” I say smugly because I know she can’t think of one damn thing to come back with.

I could see a couple of these young girls checking out my son and it brang a smile to my lips. He’s pretty damn cute if I don’t say so myself. He’s tall for his age and I’m pretty sure there’s a few gutter thoughts breezing through one or two of these young mother’s minds. But you know what? I don’t mind so much as long as they let me work out with them…FOR FREE!

Oh the sacrifice’s we mother’s make to save a dime here and there.

“Well, let’s just start then,” Miss PB says.

Now here’s where having my son in the stroller pays off big time. We’re starting out with squats.  I can see that these young girls are really going to have to use their leg muscles in order not to tip over their strollers as they use them to keep their balance. I watch as they check the safety straps and harnesses that will keep their littuns’ safe and sound.

My son is an anchor for me. His hundred and seventy five pounds of lean muscle hunkering down in that stroller means that I can disperse the muscle usage equally between my double chinned arms and my less than toned legs.

“Just hang on dude,” I warn him because the straps on this stroller are unusable with his size.

He unfurls his thirty-six inch inseam limbs, adjusts his gonads, then pushes the sunshade away so he can watch me. I here the first hint of a giggle sneaking out of him because he knows this is my least favorite exercise and I really have to concentrate so I don’t start laughing.

Miss PB starts the drill.

“One…hold it………………..Two…………..breathe.”

During the second squat, I start to feel that old familiar gurgle that emanates from my five-decade-old gas pipes.

CRAP!

Remember: mid-life and squats are not the best combination for me, especially with the absence of GasX . That’s what got me into this situation in the first place.

I take a deep breath and squeeze the old sphincter muscle as tight as I can in hopes that I can avoid the possibility of my butt actually erupting.

OOPS!

There goes the first warning shot! I count my blessings immediately because there’s no obvious noise.

Smell…well that’s another thing. Thank God I was down wind.

Dipping for number three felt a little better. I guess the warning shot had relieved enough pressure to let me continue without fear.

WRONG!

When I finally get all the way down—my butt, which has acquired it’s own life cycle, has decided it’s time to party. Oh yeah…bells and whistles—drum roll please—it was time to blow the party horn. The best I could hope for is that it wouldn’t react like a piñata that might actually spill its guts.

“WOW, THIS FEELS FANTASTIC,” I scream at the top of my lungs hoping it will drown out the sound of the thunderous blasphemy that seems to be taking its time exiting the building.

Of course my outburst is greeted with more WTF stares. I fight fire with fire and stare back because I don’t really care because, if I had my druthers, I’d rather they think I was a crazy old bitch instead of a stinking rotten smelly one.

I’d been so worried about the noise I didn’t notice that the wind had changed direction.

My first hint that something was way wrong was when my son clutched, first his nose, then his throat before making that gagging face over and over. About five seconds later he keeled over and played dead.

One of the girls noticed him slumped over while he was playing possum and pointed towards him.

“Is he okay?” she said with real concern in her voice.

“Oh yes, he’ll be fine in a minute,” I assure her.

I kick the bottom of the stroller to get my point across, to tell him to quit it. If he blows this for me there’d be a steep price to pay later.

That’s when he throws in a full body twitch just to make sure he gets his point across—that being that I’d nearly killed him as last night’s broccoli regurgitated itself.  I guess there’s only so much a person can do to reign in our personal carbon footprint.

“He just needs a little fresh air,” I say and start squatting again.

“Noooooooo…!”

It comes out of his mouth like a little childish whisper.

“OMG! Don’t do it Mom!” he says seeing me as I prepared to do the fourth squat.

“Can you just shut up?” I say to him.  “You don’t see any of the other kids making a scene.

“Hello…What are they, six months old…a year?” he says in his own defense.

I look over at their sweet little faces. They look like little angels ‘NOW’ and all I can do is smile.  They have no idea what’s to come ten, fifteen years from now.

Miss PB calls off the squats, announcing that we’re now going to jog around the park twice.

Oh Lord!

I knew I should have quit smoking a long time ago.

My mind starts to reel as I anticipate the possibility of respiratory failure. I know if I keep a fairly slow pace I can probably do it, but it’s much, much harder than I’d anticipated. I am comforted by the fact that I can see the giant hospital directly across the street from the park. I’m sure that if anything happens, like me going face down, the six of them can surely drag my sorry ass across the grass and deposit me in the emergency room in a timely manner.

The six of them take off leaving me in a heap of dust. Bitches! I watch their perky little asses and am fascinated by the fact that they don’t flop up and down like mine. WTF?

Before I can even think about running we have to reconfigure my sons legs back into the stroller so we don’t get tripped up and end up on a gurney for other reasons.

Okay, so we’re off. It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be except for the fact that I can’t remember the last time I ran anywhere while trying to push a car in front of me.

My son decides he’ll help out by unfurling his legs and straddling the stroller trying to run along with me. Each time his foot hits the ground however, the stroller zigs in the opposite direction and we end up looking like we’re drunk.

“Put your damn feet up,” I yell. “You’re gonna kill us both.”

“I can’t, you have to stop first.”

“No way Jose,” I say looking over my shoulder. The girls are about to lap me.

He somehow pulls his legs up so we can keep moving. I try desperately to keep ahead of them, but it’s no use. One by one they zoom past.

CRAP!

I hate failure!

Try as I might I cannot keep up. Plan B starts to formulate in my befuddled, not enough morning coffee brain. I can see the group is about to round the last corner of the track, the home stretch, and realize that if I don’t act now I’ll have to go down in defeat.

I tell my son to get out and we cut across the center of the track. If I time this right, not only will this put us ahead of them, we’ll also have enough time to squish him back into the stroller and build up a little sweat.

When the girls finally ‘catch up’ with us they look confused.

“I know…I know, you didn’t even see me pass you huh?” I say pretending to be breathless. “Evelyn Wood’s Speed Running…took that course last year.”

This seems to impress them or at least this is what I tell myself.

Really, all I want to do is sit down, slug back some water, have a smoke, and rest for a few minutes.

No such luck. Apparently this workout group works like a ‘real’ boot camp. No rest for the weary.

This is really fucked up! How come I didn’t notice the ferocity of their regime during my walks? Guess that boils down to the old adage of ‘you only see what you want to see!’  But then again, this is probably why Miss PB’s boobs are still perky, and why all their butts are so firm. Guess I’ve been out of the loop a little too long.

Miss PB barks out that we are about to use the children as free weights so we should unleash them from their stroller seat.

I gasp, my son sighs!

We are instructed to lie on our backs, pull our legs up to a fetal position and then place our child up onto the lower part of our legs so we can do callisthenic leg lifts.

As I lie there on my back looking up towards the sky and the smirk on my son’s face, it hits me that I should have brought a towel because now my back will be scratchy all day as the dead grass penetrates my t-shirt.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face son, this is serious business,” I say.

“Oh I know, I can’t wait to see how this works out,” he says getting down on his knees.

He maneuvers his chest onto my lower legs. About two seconds later as his dead weight hits home, I feel all the air in my lungs disappear.

OMG!

Where oh where had my lower body strength gone?

I’m the handy man/woman of the house! I’ve framed in walls, built fences, framed out and built concrete stairs, hung drywall, plastered walls, moved two tons of pebbles, sand and rocks, planted trees out of their twenty four inch boxes, changed tires on cars, reworked plumbing, and gave birth twice vaginally.

How was it that this had not strengthened my legs. Why was this hundred and seventy-five pound punk suffocating me?

I looked to my left then my right, and each one of these girls was breezing through the routine.  Well no shit! They were balancing maybe fifteen or twenty pounds at the most.

Miss PB is glaring at me by this time. I’m sure she’s formulating the words she’s going to say to me after all is said and done that will make me go away and let them get on with their business of getting fit.

My son is looking down at me with that ‘what are you going to do now’ look and all I can do is smile.

“You know, you could help me out here you little Peckerhead! Put your hands on the ground and take some of the pressure off,” I say to him.

“But Mom…that would be cheating wouldn’t it?”

He says this not knowing that these words were, in reality, a death wish on his part.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t help me out here your gonads might just meet up with an unsightly accident,” I say smiling through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” he says as the smile evaporates from his lips.

He realizes that he’s in a compromised position. He lowers his hands to the ground in self-defense.

Okie Dokie then! In this position I can actually lift him. We manage to get about ten leg lifts done. Just as I really start to get the rhythm down Miss PB says we’re done.

She stands up and sets her oh so sweet daughter down in the middle of the circle with the other toddlers. She looks over at me, smiles her movie star smile, and I start to wonder whether or not my family can sue her for unnecessary cruelty in the event that I actually drop dead from exertion.

OMG! I know she can see the sweat pouring off me like Niagara Falls, and that my face must be red as an apple at this point, but she doesn’t say a word—nor do I.  It’s just another moment where I want to bitch slap her for pushing me to, or rather, beyond my limit.

I am older and wiser and she is not going to win!

I need to gather myself here and pull my t-shirt up so I can swab away some of the fluids that have leaked out of me. Not a good move on my part because now they all see the body sucker I’ve been sporting under my clothes to reveal only my curvy side.

OOPS!

I can see them staring at me.  Yep! There were twelve eyes bearing down on my girdled midriff.

“I have a bad back. I need the pressure to hold my spine in place,” I say returning my t-shirt to where it should have never left.

Crap!

This is going to hell in a basket!

Miss PB rolls her eyes back in her head. I imitate her so she’s aware that I am not going to let her throw me. She announces that she’ll stay with the children while we go free jog.

WHAT? Free jog? She can’t be serious! That last stint nearly killed me even at the piddly-assed pace I tried to maintain. If I had to move faster than that, which I assumed she would want us to, I might never see my family again.

My son plopped down amid the toddlers and waved me off.

“Go on Mom, don’t worry about me,” he said right before he burst out laughing.

I put one foot in front of the other and made my way back to the track. Without the distraction of the added weight (my son and the stroller) I figured I could ace this portion of the workout for at least for one lap—maybe even two.

Unfortunately, my boobs, otherwise known as thing one and thing two, had other plans. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought about doubling up on the sports bra, I just know that I hadn’t. Big mistake!

I was now being bitch-slapped by my own flesh.

My breasts had turned into out of control Slinky’s—undulated up, down, side-to-side—stretching in ways that could—in no way—be considered flattering.  I slowed down in order to stop this hideous circus act. I hadn’t even reached the second turn on the track when two of the young mothers lapped me.

Son of a bitch!

I did the only thing I could. I stopped.

I made my way back to the center of the track.

With my shoulders slumped in defeat I headed directly to Miss PB.

“You win! I’m done.”

“But we’re just getting started,” she says flashing her chicklet-white smile.

I’m so tired I can’t even be witty. I glare at my son who is currently sucking his thumb mimicking the other toddlers. I have just enough wherewithal to pull my shoulders back and stand as proud as I can.

“Let’s go son,” I say.

“Where we going Mom?”

“To lick my wounds!”

As we finish packing everything back into the car I catch sight of a group of seniors doing Thai Chi under the shade of several giant eucalyptus trees next to the parking lot.

“Ah-so young grasshopper,” I say smiling at my son. “There is a God after all—I’ll be right back.”

…is something that all women have to deal with after that freaking blessed event of allowing a far too large object to slide out of the smallest portal on our body!

Let’s face it girls. We really don’t give much thought to our expanding girth when it’s falls under the guise of ‘baby fat’. As that little sucker grows inside of us we cling to that self-serving deception tactic of “I’ve got to feed the baby” or “I’m trying to protect the baby” with all this added cushion.

B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t!

Pregnancy brain makes us delusional is what I think.

What we’ve really done is stuffed our bloody faces until we look like we’re ready to explode because we think no one’s really watching our weight–they’re only watching the blessed progression of a developing baby.

So, flash forward a decade or two.

You realize your kids are nearly adults now and you’re still carrying around a pile of flab that’s been there since way back when.

Double CRAP!

With the recession like it is now, so many of us are left to our own devices to get in shape because gym memberships are still at a premium. The price of working out one-on-one with a personal trainer is also out of reach for most of us, so what do we do–we start looking around to find the cheapest possible way to get the most for our money.

Hubby and I usually walk every morning at our local park. If we go around the outside twice we can get in about two miles. Unfortunately, when it’s a little cooler outside, we take a shortcut so we can stay in the sun. Hello…short cuts will not get rid of said baby fat.

But the good part is, we find new inspiration during these little treks because every day we’d see different groups working out. You’ve got your boot camps, your one-on-ones, basketball games, joggers…there’s a plethora of people trying to get fit, or as I like to think of it–getting your J-ello to finally set.

One group I’ve notice over the past year is made up of several young mothers and their toddlers. They use the strollers for balance, use their kids as free weights, and all in all, they seem like their having a good time instead of just sweating their asses off alone. They’ve got that camaraderie going on, and from the look on their faces, they really don’t seem to mind the stretching, crunching, or jogging so long as they can do it together.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. You grab a bunch of your ‘baby-fat’ friends who are stuck at home with their young children and you work out together. It’s the perfect world–like minded women at the same place in their life.

So after pondering this idea I finally got brave enough to go ask them if it was an open group and how much did it cost to join.

“We don’t pay anything, we just work out together because it’s more fun to do it this way,”  says the girl who kind of looks like she’s leading the group.

“Oh,” I said.

I notice that they’re all kind of staring at me in that odd kind of way because it’s obvious I’m a lot older than all of them.

“Could I come?” I ask.

“Well…you’re..um…I think you’re a little old for our group,” she says looking me up and down with that smug superior look on her face.

I want to bitch-slap her but I refrain from doing so because this might be my ticket to shed a few pounds without spending a dime so I keep my cool.

“No…I don’t think I’m too old,” I say as I crush the urge to take this bitch down right then and there. “I’m not as old as I look you know.”

The whole pack of them exchange a look, you know the one. I can see them trying to formulate a reason to get me to go away.

“Do you have kids?” she asks because I’m pretty sure she can see the daggers flying out of my eyeballs right towards her heart.

“Yeah, I’ve got kids,” I reply waiting to see where she’s going to go next.

She looks around at the others in the group trying to surmise by the looks on their faces whether or not she should offer me a place in the group. They pull themselves into a little huddle and have a short conference. A moment later they separate and the spokesgirl takes another long look at me.

“Why don’t you come Wednesday…WITH your kid,” she says. “We’ll see if you can keep up with us.”

Oh no you didn’t girl!

I can’t believe she went there so fast!

Yep, she upped the ante by attacking my competitive side. She may very well have opened Pandora’s Box!

Oh well, maybe this was exactly what I needed to hear to motivate me to undo what time and gluttony had done to me.

“Okie-dokie, I’ll see you Wednesday then,” I say.

I can hear them giggling as I walk away.

CRAP!!

I may have bitten off more than I could chew!

So here’s one of the only perks of home schooling. My son is constantly available, and fortunately for me, he has the same warped humor that I do. I know he’ll be game for this, and besides, he loves to work out so it’s game on.

Tuesday rolls around and I go to my neighbor and ask if I can borrow her jogger stroller.

“What do you need a stroller for?” she asks.

I lie and tell her I’m going to be babysitting a friend’s kid on Wednesday.

“Oh, okay,” she says.

Wednesday morning, I get up early, wash my hair, do my makeup, dress in my best workout clothes. I’m not going to let these young she dogs see the real morning me under any circumstances!

I get my son up, feed him so he won’t get cranky, and we head off to the park.

When I pull into the parking lot I can see them off in the distance. There’s five or six of them and they’re already stretching, and sucking back the last drops of their coffee. Why the hell do they look so perky already? I slap my face a few times trying to get that ‘warmed up already’ redness in my cheeks.

I get the stroller out of the back of my car, set it on the ground and try to open it.

Crap!

I guess we should have done a run through at home.

I realize it has some kind of dam fangled lock on it somewhere but I just can’t find it. I look around in desperation, and like a mirage before my eyes, there appears another health nut, a mother, with her kid, in the same kind of stroller, and I know she’s not part of the mommy group I’m about to join. She sees my plight and comes to my aid.

She flicks a little toggle and the god damm buggy springs to life just like when you pull the toggle of the life jacket on an airplane. Oh yeah! That’ll be a story for another time!

I jump out of the way and she laughs at me.

“Sometimes these things have a  life of there own,” she offers.”They take some getting used to.”

“No shit!” I say thinking these things must be manufactured by Toyota.

The smile on her lips turns sour and she glares at me.

I slap my hand over my mouth.

My bad!

I look down at her beautiful little girl who is also staring at me now.

“I’m sorry…that just kind of slipped out,” I say trying to salvage my bad self.

She say’s nothing in return for my apology. She just turns away and heads off with an air of indignation.

My son looks at me and we both burst out laughing.

Okay, so now we’ve got the stroller ready for loading. I look at my son then look at the stroller and wonder how this is going to work.

At six-feet-five inches this is definitely going to be interesting.

Knowing that my son’s in pretty good shape I figure we should be all right. It might take a minute or two to finagle his gangly limbs into it—but come hell or high water—it was going to happen!

My pride and mid-life fat was on the line here.

After ten minutes of pushing, shoving, contorting, and cramming his gangly body parts this way and that, he was sufficiently trapped in the damn blasted contraption.

Was he a happy camper? No!

“I can’t breathe,” he said. “My balls hurt!”

“Oh shut up you big baby,” I said slamming the sunshade down over his head.

Then it hit me. This was so uber-perfect because he was acting like a two-year-old.

I win!

As I approach the group I am met with stares, glares, and more of those WTF looks they’d given me on my initial approach.

I still win.

They never mentioned anything about an age limit—their loss—my gain!

“You didn’t say anything about your son being…well…older,” Miss Perky Boobs says.

“You never asked,” I say smugly because I know she can’t think of one damn thing to come back with.

I could see a couple of these young girls checking out my son and it brang a smile to my lips. He’s pretty damn cute if I don’t say so myself. He’s tall for his age and I’m pretty sure there’s a few gutter thoughts breezing through one or two of these young mother’s minds. But you know what? I don’t mind so much as long as they let me work out with them…FOR FREE!

Oh the sacrifice’s we mother’s make to save a dime here and there.

“Well, let’s just start then,” Miss PB says.

Now here’s where having my son in the stroller pays off big time. We’re starting out with squats.  I can see that these young girls are really going to have to use their leg muscles in order not to tip over their strollers as they use them to keep their balance. I watch as they check the safety straps and harnesses that will keep their littuns’ safe and sound.

My son is an anchor for me. His hundred and seventy five pounds of lean muscle hunkering down in that stroller means that I can disperse the muscle usage equally between my double chinned arms and my less than toned legs.

“Just hang on dude,” I warn him because the straps on this stroller are unusable with his size.

He unfurls his thirty-six inch inseam limbs, adjusts his gonads, then pushes the sunshade away so he can watch me. I here the first hint of a giggle sneaking out of him because he knows this is my least favorite exercise and I really have to concentrate so I don’t start laughing.

Miss PB starts the drill.

“One…hold it………………..Two…………..breathe.”

During the second squat, I start to feel that old familiar gurgle that emanates from my five-decade-old gas pipes.

CRAP!

Remember: mid-life and squats are not the best combination for me, especially with the absence of GasX . That’s what got me into this situation in the first place.

I take a deep breath and squeeze the old sphincter muscle as tight as I can in hopes that I can avoid the possibility of my butt actually erupting.

OOPS!

There goes the first warning shot! I count my blessings immediately because there’s no obvious noise.

Smell…well that’s another thing. Thank God I was down wind.

Dipping for number three felt a little better. I guess the warning shot had relieved enough pressure to let me continue without fear.

WRONG!

When I finally get all the way down—my butt, which has acquired it’s own life cycle, has decided it’s time to party. Oh yeah…bells and whistles—drum roll please—it was time to blow the party horn. The best I could hope for is that it wouldn’t react like a piñata that might actually spill its guts.

“WOW, THIS FEELS FANTASTIC,” I scream at the top of my lungs hoping it will drown out the sound of the thunderous blasphemy that seems to be taking its time exiting the building.

Of course my outburst is greeted with more WTF stares. I fight fire with fire and stare back because I don’t really care because, if I had my druthers, I’d rather they think I was a crazy old bitch instead of a stinking rotten smelly one.

I’d been so worried about the noise I didn’t notice that the wind had changed direction.

My first hint that something was way wrong was when my son clutched, first his nose, then his throat before making that gagging face over and over. About five seconds later he keeled over and played dead.

One of the girls noticed him slumped over while he was playing possum and pointed towards him.

“Is he okay?” she said with real concern in her voice.

“Oh yes, he’ll be fine in a minute,” I assure her.

I kick the bottom of the stroller to get my point across, to tell him to quit it. If he blows this for me there’d be a steep price to pay later.

That’s when he throws in a full body twitch just to make sure he gets his point across—that being that I’d nearly killed him as last night’s broccoli regurgitated itself.  I guess there’s only so much a person can do to reign in our personal carbon footprint.

“He just needs a little fresh air,” I say and start squatting again.

“Noooooooo…!”

It comes out of his mouth like a little childish whisper.

“OMG! Don’t do it Mom!” he says seeing me as I prepared to do the fourth squat.

“Can you just shut up?” I say to him.  “You don’t see any of the other kids making a scene.

“Hello…What are they, six months old…a year?” he says in his own defense.

I look over at their sweet little faces. They look like little angels ‘NOW’ and all I can do is smile.  They have no idea what’s to come ten, fifteen years from now.

Miss PB calls off the squats, announcing that we’re now going to jog around the park twice.

Oh Lord!

I knew I should have quit smoking a long time ago.

My mind starts to reel as I anticipate the possibility of respiratory failure. I know if I keep a fairly slow pace I can probably do it, but it’s much, much harder than I’d anticipated. I am comforted by the fact that I can see the giant hospital directly across the street from the park. I’m sure that if anything happens, like me going face down, the six of them can surely drag my sorry ass across the grass and deposit me in the emergency room in a timely manner.

The six of them take off leaving me in a heap of dust. Bitches! I watch their perky little asses and am fascinated by the fact that they don’t flop up and down like mine. WTF?

Before I can even think about running we have to reconfigure my sons legs back into the stroller so we don’t get tripped up and end up on a gurney for other reasons.

Okay, so we’re off. It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be except for the fact that I can’t remember the last time I ran anywhere while trying to push a car in front of me.

My son decides he’ll help out by unfurling his legs and straddling the stroller trying to run along with me. Each time his foot hits the ground however, the stroller zigs in the opposite direction and we end up looking like we’re drunk.

“Put your damn feet up,” I yell. “You’re gonna kill us both.”

“I can’t, you have to stop first.”

“No way Jose,” I say looking over my shoulder. The girls are about to lap me.

He somehow pulls his legs up so we can keep moving. I try desperately to keep ahead of them, but it’s no use. One by one they zoom past.

CRAP!

I hate failure!

Try as I might I cannot keep up. Plan B starts to formulate in my befuddled, not enough morning coffee brain. I can see the group is about to round the last corner of the track, the home stretch, and realize that if I don’t act now I’ll have to go down in defeat.

I tell my son to get out and we cut across the center of the track. If I time this right, not only will this put us ahead of them, we’ll also have enough time to squish him back into the stroller and build up a little sweat.

When the girls finally ‘catch up’ with us they look confused.

“I know…I know, you didn’t even see me pass you huh?” I say pretending to be breathless. “Evelyn Wood’s Speed Running…took that course last year.”

This seems to impress them or at least this is what I tell myself.

Really, all I want to do is sit down, slug back some water, have a smoke, and rest for a few minutes.

No such luck. Apparently this workout group works like a ‘real’ boot camp. No rest for the weary.

This is really fucked up! How come I didn’t notice the ferocity of their regime during my walks? Guess that boils down to the old adage of ‘you only see what you want to see!’  But then again, this is probably why Miss PB’s boobs are still perky, and why all their butts are so firm. Guess I’ve been out of the loop a little too long.

Miss PB barks out that we are about to use the children as free weights so we should unleash them from their stroller seat.

I gasp, my son sighs!

We are instructed to lie on our backs, pull our legs up to a fetal position and then place our child up onto the lower part of our legs so we can do callisthenic leg lifts.

As I lie there on my back looking up towards the sky and the smirk on my son’s face, it hits me that I should have brought a towel because now my back will be scratchy all day as the dead grass penetrates my t-shirt.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face son, this is serious business,” I say.

“Oh I know, I can’t wait to see how this works out,” he says getting down on his knees.

He maneuvers his chest onto my lower legs. About two seconds later as his dead weight hits home, I feel all the air in my lungs disappear.

OMG!

Where oh where had my lower body strength gone?

I’m the handy man/woman of the house! I’ve framed in walls, built fences, framed out and built concrete stairs, hung drywall, plastered walls, moved two tons of pebbles, sand and rocks, planted trees out of their twenty four inch boxes, changed tires on cars, reworked plumbing, and gave birth twice vaginally.

How was it that this had not strengthened my legs. Why was this hundred and seventy-five pound punk suffocating me?

I looked to my left then my right, and each one of these girls was breezing through the routine.  Well no shit! They were balancing maybe fifteen or twenty pounds at the most.

Miss PB is glaring at me by this time. I’m sure she’s formulating the words she’s going to say to me after all is said and done that will make me go away and let them get on with their business of getting fit.

My son is looking down at me with that ‘what are you going to do now’ look and all I can do is smile.

“You know, you could help me out here you little Peckerhead! Put your hands on the ground and take some of the pressure off,” I say to him.

“But Mom…that would be cheating wouldn’t it?”

He says this not knowing that these words were, in reality, a death wish on his part.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t help me out here your gonads might just meet up with an unsightly accident,” I say smiling through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” he says as the smile evaporates from his lips.

He realizes that he’s in a compromised position. He lowers his hands to the ground in self-defense.

Okie Dokie then! In this position I can actually lift him. We manage to get about ten leg lifts done. Just as I really start to get the rhythm down Miss PB says we’re done.

She stands up and sets her oh so sweet daughter down in the middle of the circle with the other toddlers. She looks over at me, smiles her movie star smile, and I start to wonder whether or not my family can sue her for unnecessary cruelty in the event that I actually drop dead from exertion.

OMG! I know she can see the sweat pouring off me like Niagara Falls, and that my face must be red as an apple at this point, but she doesn’t say a word—nor do I.  It’s just another moment where I want to bitch slap her for pushing me to, or rather, beyond my limit.

I am older and wiser and she is not going to win!

I need to gather myself here and pull my t-shirt up so I can swab away some of the fluids that have leaked out of me. Not a good move on my part because now they all see the body sucker I’ve been sporting under my clothes to reveal only my curvy side.

OOPS!

I can see them staring at me.  Yep! There were twelve eyes bearing down on my girdled midriff.

“I have a bad back. I need the pressure to hold my spine in place,” I say returning my t-shirt to where it should have never left.

Crap!

This is going to hell in a basket!

Miss PB rolls her eyes back in her head. I imitate her so she’s aware that I am not going to let her throw me. She announces that she’ll stay with the children while we go free jog.

WHAT? Free jog? She can’t be serious! That last stint nearly killed me even at the piddly-assed pace I tried to maintain. If I had to move faster than that, which I assumed she would want us to, I might never see my family again.

My son plopped down amid the toddlers and waved me off.

“Go on Mom, don’t worry about me,” he said right before he burst out laughing.

I put one foot in front of the other and made my way back to the track. Without the distraction of the added weight (my son and the stroller) I figured I could ace this portion of the workout for at least for one lap—maybe even two.

Unfortunately, my boobs, otherwise known as thing one and thing two, had other plans. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought about doubling up on the sports bra, I just know that I hadn’t. Big mistake!

I was now being bitch-slapped by my own flesh.

My breasts had turned into out of control Slinky’s—undulated up, down, side-to-side—stretching in ways that could—in no way—be considered flattering.  I slowed down in order to stop this hideous circus act. I hadn’t even reached the second turn on the track when two of the young mothers lapped me.

Son of a bitch!

I did the only thing I could. I stopped.

I made my way back to the center of the track.

With my shoulders slumped in defeat I headed directly to Miss PB.

“You win! I’m done.”

“But we’re just getting started,” she says flashing her chicklet-white smile.

I’m so tired I can’t even be witty. I glare at my son who is currently sucking his thumb mimicking the other toddlers. I have just enough wherewithal to pull my shoulders back and stand as proud as I can.

“Let’s go son,” I say.

“Where we going Mom?”

“To lick my wounds!”

As we finish packing everything back into the car I catch sight of a group of seniors doing Thai Chi under the shade of several giant eucalyptus trees next to the parking lot.

“Ah-so, not so fast young grasshopper,” I say smiling at my son. “There is a God after all—I’ll be right back.”

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!

Part 1…Libido boosters…


…have become big business these days. So many people I know have had to resort to them in order to maintain any kind of sex life.

Where the hell have all the lost libido’s gone I wonder? Where was mine?  Was it lost in the same vacuum as all those missing socks I’ve failed to locate after dong laundry?

Did it fall out that day I wore granny panties instead of my thong? If that’s the case, I should have known better, I knew the elastic was loose.

Or did it escape when they ripped out my innards to protect me from the blob that had taken over my uterus back in my forties?

Could it have snuck out while I was sleeping one night when my legs spread haphazardly in the nine o’clock/three o’clock position hoping for one of those rare, did I say rare, I think I said rare, spontaneous orgasm.

There’s also a very good possibility that I lost it somewhere between packing lunches, running to the dry cleaners, washing, drying, and folding endless loads of laundry, dropping the kids off wherever then picking them up later, homeschooling my son, (kill me now) paying the bills, waxing the floors, dusting the furniture, washing the windows, dragging the garbage cans to the curb, negotiating with the plumber or electrician or the Roto Rooter man, cooking dinner, grocery shopping, bathing the dog, and whatever else needs to be tended to nearly every single day.

Mmmmmmm…………. Maybe it wasn’t just my libido I lost…maybe it was my entire mind that went AWOL.

Maybe, just maybe, when I find all my missing socks I’ll find my mojo again, but until that day arrives, I’ll be on the search for the magic bullet .

We women know very well that menopause does strange things to our bodies, and even stranger things to our minds. We look at ourselves in the mirror and are often surprised to see that erosion is no longer just a term reserved solely for soil. All those perky parts that used to be up there have gone south and are not expected to return home any time soon.

Your nipples, well, I have a vague memory of how proud they used to make me during the winter, you know, sweater weather. They could make a grown man stop dead in his tracks. Now…they sort of point towards the ground as though they’re weighted down with magnets and are constantly on the lookout for missing coins.

What used to be my neat little waistline, well…hell that thing now looks like a scrap yard filled with heaps of old worn out dented parts waiting to be crushed and hauled off. I never knew you could acutally grow cellulite on a belly but I was wrong. I was very wrong. My favorite trick with this newfound flesh is to squish together all the fat around my belly button to replicate the perfect bagel.

The lack of hormones, lack of energy, lack of time, lack of desire, all move us constantly towards that ‘not tonight honey I’ve got a headache’ syndrome. In some cases it’s even more drastic, it’s more like ‘touch me and pull back a bloody stub’. Worse yet, you can voice the words ‘touch me and die’ with a single glance at your partner.

Yeah, the lost libido syndrome echo’s across the nation like a sonic boom and you know who’s listening to these calls for help–the pharmaceutical companies—that’s who. They’re very aware of the need to put the zip back in your atrophying vagina before it closes shop permanantly. They know they’ve got you by the balls so to speak. So what do they do, they charge you a freaking arm and a leg for their products because they know that if mama ain’t happy, nobodies happy.

Yep, this craps expensive and because it doesn’t work like Erectile Dysfunction meds, which has an immediate impact, you have to take it long term.

I recently had coffee with my angel and his wife. We talked about all the normal things we usually talk about but then the conversation turned to his prostrate cancer. Now, this in itself is not funny at all, but his description on how his penis works now that his prostate has been removed cracked me up. Not only did he have to take Viagra to get a boner, he had to give himself a shot right in his wiener.

Holy crap!

When those words left his lips I felt my vagina shrivel up into a fetal position trying to protect itself.

Let’s put it this way, if somebody told me I had to stick a needle in my vagina to achieve an orgasm, I’d likely die an old non-orgasmic spinster.

Our conversation had to be diverted at that point so I asked his wife how her libido was. I figured she was a safe bet to ascertain a little info on this subject because she’s a little older than me. She told me that she had struggled with it over the years, having gone through menopause already, but she’d recently discovered a fantastic product that boosted her libido.

It was a combination of Chinese herbs that turned it around for her. She swore by them and told me I should get some for myself.  I hate trying new things, especially when it comes to pills of any kind, but I was desperate. I sucked back the rest of my coffee, excused myself, then rushed off to the herbalist’s store.

Now if I’d been looking for say, something for a cough, or something to make me sleep, I would not have hesitated to ask for help locating this particular product, but because it would be an admission of my inadequate sex drive I cruised up and down the aisles scanning bottle after bottle for what seemed like hours. I couldn’t find it.

Crap!

I slunk up to the counter, and of course it was some young Chinese boy standing there, and I had to ask him to point out the libido booster section.

“Oh yes…libido…” he said looking me up and down.

“Mmmmm…” was about the only confirmation I could respond with.

“Libido broke?” he said in a half-question, half-statement tone.

“No, no, I just lost it somewhere between my forties and fifties.”

…to be continued!

Mating Season…


…happens in the early spring most of the time.

You got the birds and the bees doing it, the dogs and cats, as  well as a large population of various domestic and wild  animals. It’s such a natural phenomena that it usually passes  unnoticed, with the exception of those pain in the ass cats  who howl and scream at each other in the wee hours of the  night  demanding submission from their partner.

I’ll tell you this much, if someone screamed at me that way the  last thing they’d be getting is sex! I’d clamp my legs together  so tight it’d take a crew with crowbars to separate them. As a  matter of fact, I’d be off and running ‘cause if they scream at  you before sex, God only knows what’s going to happen later  on down the road.

These are signs that must not be ignored poeple.

I’ve discovered that Los Angeles has a human mating season that runs year round, but it doesn’t take place in the bedroom—it’s takes place on the surface streets, parking lots and wherever else people and cars can mix.

Here in LA there’s millions of cars on the road at any given time of the day. Even in the wee hours of the morning you can see the stream of headlights moving along the freeway like a trail of lava. Where  everybody’s going at that time is anybodies guess. Maybe they’re going to work or coming home from work, out partying or just flat out wasting gas because they’re bored, but there out they’re morning, noon, and night.

By my estimates about 10% of these road warriors are seniors, 75% are the money-makers—you know—us—the baby boomers, the shakers and the movers, and last but not least are the 15% who fall into the teenagers/young adult group.

This last group of course is the most worrisome. Not that we don’t have to worry about some of those seniors out there who have trouble discerning which is the gas peddle and which is the brake, or the baby boomer whose financial empire is about to fail and they’ve got six tons of metal and chrome to vent with.

My concern is the teen/young adult group. They’re so technologically user friendly, it’s rare to see one of them driving without a phone clamped in the palms of their hands as they try to talk/text/photograph whomever or whatever strikes their fancy while travelling at high speed. From my experience this usually always takes place right next to my car. And, oh, by the way, if you DON’T see the phone in their hands you should be especially careful because that means they may have dropped it on the floor and will likely start swerving about in order to retrieve this precious communication system.

What worries me even more is that they also seem to be searching for love on the road. I’ve seen it first hand, this banter that goes on between drivers who happen to catch each other’s eyes.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for looking for love—but while you is driving? Come on people, this does not seem to me when you should be doing anything but keeping your eyes on the road with your hands placed precisely at the ten o’clock/two o’clock position on the steering wheel.

I guess this shouldn’t surprise me that much since the world has become this big pulsing beat that is so fast paced, if you don’t have a hold of the knot at the end of the rope, well, you’re in big trouble. You’ll be so left behind your kids will wander around aimlessly with that world famous question—Where’s Mommy?

Of course Dad, whose kept pace with technology all along as it progressed, will then in turn have to tell them that Mom missed the boat. She’s lost somewhere between the 80’s and the 90’s. He’ll then explain that she picked up the computer far too late, she can’t do anything with her blackberry except make and receive calls, and once you tell her East or West instead of left or right there’s a good possibility she may never be seen again.

Hell, this world’s so fast and easy you don’t even have to get out of your car at Starbucks any more. Yep, you can just drive through and never waste one precious moment of freeway time.  They all cruise around the building at a snails pace, but the very second that cup is in their hands they peel out of there like their pants are on fire. Yes, we Angelian’s love the coffee God!

Anyway, I got caught up in one of these mating sessions the other day after I dropped my son off at school. There I was, just sitting there, minding my own business when this young girl pulled up next to me. She stopped just slightly ahead of me but I could see her perfectly through the back passenger door window. I guessed her to be somewhere in her late teens/early twenties. She’s got her hair tied up in a knot of some kind on the top of her head. I recognize this knot because my daughter wears this same style. I’ve named it the Sumo Roll for obvious reasons. Okay, so this girl is probably cuter than I think but her face is covered under the biggest pair of sunglasses I’ve ever seen. I mean really, these things were so big you could barely make out any of her facial features.  They seem a little excessive size wise but maybe this is how she saves on sun block.

Her car, well, it’s not so much a car than it is pieces of metal screwed together, and it appears to have been, at one point, some shade of blue. My guess is she’s an avid driver/texter by the amount of damage I can see just on this side of the car. Oddly enough I also notice a small patch of grass hanging down from the bottom of what once was a shiny chrome bumper. What had replaced the factory authorized safety device now looked more like tin foil that had been used, scrunched up, and then recycled in the form of a bumper.  This crash I realize must be fairly recent since the grass is still showing signs of life and there’s a tiny sprinkler head peaking it’s head out of the patch and it’s still dripping water. What a lucky sod!

Now I’m curious about the interior of her car so I roll forward a little, just enough to snoop but not so obvious she’ll turn to look at me. The back seat is covered with piles of clothes, water bottles, empty coffee cups, empty cigarette packages, and a bunch of other things that I can’t actually recognize. This is what I’d call the typical teenage car. I know it like the back of my hand. I’ve got one just like it sitting in my driveway at home.

I notice that not only is she chewing gum, she’s also got a freshly lit cigarette hanging from her lips. Her fingers are flying across the keyboard of her phone at the speed of light for what seems like the worlds longest message composed on a phone. She sets the phone on the dashboard for a brief moment and removes the cigarette from between her lips. I see a pink bubble squish out through her lips and when it pops, there’s a small cloud of smoke that lingers in front of her. Holy crap!

I’m thinking that if there was ever an award for personal multi-tasking, this girl takes the cake.

On the other side of my car I see a brand new shiny white BMW pull up just slightly ahead of my car. This one is driven by a boy who looks twenty something as well. I watch as he looks at the girl across the one lane span. I see he is trying to get her attention so like any good voyeur I crack the windows on both sides of my car so I can hear them.

“Hey,” he calls out to her tapping his horn just a little to make sure he gets her attention.

It takes her a minute to respond. She turns the radio down and yells back “What’s up.”

“Wanna hang out?” he yells.

“No.” she says and rolls up the passenger side window.

Flash forward to the next light where we’re still aligned in the same way. I notice both her windows are down again.

He taps the horn in another attempt to get her attention then yells out his single greeting of ‘hey’.

She sees him again and turns the radio down.

“What?” she says.

“Can I call you?” he yells back as he waves his cell phone towards her.

She shakes her head no.

“Come on we’ll have fun, maybe we can go some hooka,” he says hoping this will entice her.

“Where do you live?” she responds.

“I live with my folks…er…I live in Hollywood.” he says trying to cover up his error.

She smiles the most beautiful smile at him showing off her perfect chicklet teeth then her window starts to roll up.

I look back at him and he’s got his hands up in the air as if to say WTF. He tries one last honk but the light changes. She flips him off even though she’s still got that big smile on her face then makes a left hand turn. He chucks his phone down on to the seat and speeds away.

So I’m thinking to myself, I wonder if this ever works.

About ten minutes later I pull up to another of the million lights I will get caught at on my way home. Sitting beside me is a kind of gruff looking young man. He looks to be around my daughters age. I decide to try out my own version of car mating just for the hell of it.

I roll down my window, tap my horn and wait for a response. Nothing! So this time I blast the horn. Well that gets his attention and he rolls down the window. His radio is so loud I have to shout.

“Hey you wanna hang out smoke some hooka?” I ask even though I’m wondering what I’ll actually do if he says okay.

“What?” he screams back at me seemingly annoyed.

“Wanna go smoke some hooka?” I yell back.

He looks at me, then looks out the drivers side window to make sure that I’m not talking to someone else, then turns back to me.

“No maam, I don’t. Jesus Christ aren’t you a little old for this?” he yells at me then shuts the window. Now he’s staring at me like I’m a complete idiot.

Cut me like a knife that little bastard did when the word ‘maam’ rolled out of his puckered lips.

But I persist. I wave my cell phone at him, make the ‘call me’ gesture with my hand, and wait for his response.

His window rolls down, I hold my breath.

“Get away from me lady,” he screams at me.

I ignore his protest and mouth the words ‘call me’ one last time.

The light changes, he stick his hand out the window, flips me off then speeds away leaving a little rubber behind to show his disgust that some old woman just hit on him.

So I rethink what went wrong. Maybe I have to try this with someone more my age. Someone who won’t be disrespectful.

I spot my next victim about two lights later and man this guys good looking. You know the type, suit, briefcase, bitchin car.

I roll up next to him and see his windows are down.

“Hey…wanna hang out, smoke some hooka?” I yell through the open window.

“Pardon me?” he says like he didn’t hear exactly what I said.

“Come on, let’s go smoke some hooka…” I yell back so there is no way he won’t hear me.

He looks over at me, shakes his head, rolls up his window, then goes back to watching the light. I tap the horn one last time but this time when he looks at me I’ve already got my hand in that telephone position, you know, thumb and pinky pressed to my ear and I yell out ‘call me’. He rolls his eyes and makes a dash out of there even though the light’s still red.

Oh well, I think to myself. It was a fun experiment. That’s when I hear the loud blast of a horn.

I glance over at the car that was next to good looking guy and see this old  Armenian man ogling me. Actually I can’t decifer if it’s a lear or an ogle, but either way, this guy looks like a piece of work. My guess would be he’s maybe seventy, seventy five. He’s actually waving a big red hooka pipe at me and nodding his head in the yes motion, all the while moving his bushy eyebrow up and down in that weird little come hither motion. I see he’s got a front tooth missing and he’s a little short in the hair area and I believe he’s wearing one of those blue plaid matching shirt and short sets, which means he’s probably also wearing white knee high socks.

Crap!!!!

I train my eyes back on the light praying it will change. I roll my window up to block out whatever he’s yelling at me because I can’t understand what he’s saying anyway as he spews out in his native language.

That right there was enough to put an end to my little experiment. As I headed towards home to hubby I felt eternally grateful that I didn’t actually have to pursue this ever again.

Sexy Gray Hair…


…looks absolutely fantastic on some people. It gives them an air of wisdom, an air of maturity, and sometimes an air of mystery, but for me, it’s just a sign of what’s come and gone. It’s a sign of getting old.

I was blessed with a thick mop of brunette hair. Thank God for the little things, right? I got the hair gene from my mother’s side I think. She’s always had  thick hair and still does, and guess what? At seventy-seven there is still not one strand of gray to be found. My dad, well, not so much. He ended up with one of those Nero like rings of silver hair that started just above his ear and ended just above his ear. The rest of his balding head was fodder for many sunscreen debates.

I love, love, love my long tresses as does my husband.  Doesn’t matter if I’m staying home, going to the gym, or going to grocery store–my hair is always washed and blown out into my usual style, unless of course it’s one of ‘those’ days whereupon I don a baseball cap. You know—the bad hair day where no gel or cream will tame it.

Okay so I’ve been in a hair rut for thirty some years but it seems to work for me. I think it’s my way of pretending that time has not slipped through my hands. I always wonder when I run into someone that I haven’t seen in a long time and they say “you look exactly like you did twenty years ago”. I’m never quite sure whether I should take this as a compliment that I have aged well, or , are they referring to the fact that I’m stuck in a rut. Mmmmm….

There are some things that change in our lives, like the location of our boobs and butts cheeks, our waistline, and our ability to stay awake past nine p.m. but, hair, well that’s something we can still control.

My motto is ‘there will nary be a gray hair on my head’. I just can’t let it happen!  That ‘au natural’ thing is not for me. I’ve tried to go blonde once or twice but I could never live up to the jokes.

I’ve always said that when it comes to tell-tale signs of aging I’m going to go down hard.

I know I’ve said this out loud a few times because this always seems to make hubby’s ears perk up if he happens to hear me. Yeah, you guessed right, the boner thing again. What is with that man?

Sometimes I’ll be talking to a friend on the phone about this very subject unaware that he’s within listening distance. As soon as I hang, sometimes even before I hang up he’ll come strutting into the room with ‘that’ look on his face and a very obvious protrusion in his pants.

“Remind me to starch those pants,” I say.

He can see that I’ve already busied myself with whatever I was doing.

“Oh, okay,” he says shoving his hands in his pockets. Both his upper and lower posture changes and he slowly retreats to the other room. Poor baby!

What I want to know is why this gray hair never just flows into your regular hair. Mine always looks like bionic pubic hair on crack. It points straight up towards the sky, gleaming like a beacon screaming “look at me, look at me!”.

I remember Christmas shopping a few years back. I was at one of those large discount stores standing near a bin of ‘whatever’ when I noticed a mirrored wall directly behind it. I looked up to catch a glimpse of myself thinking that I’d looked reasonably hot when I left the house that morning but was devastated to see this one lousy gray hair in its gravity defying position.

Yep, it was like someone had rubbed a balloon on the top of my head to create that magnetic weirdness. It was crinkled and white as hell, about three inches tall, and stood out like a sore thumb against the chestnut of the rest of my head. It shone like a neon sign under those horrid flourescent lights.

I remember this lovely older woman sidling up beside me at the same time I’d made this discovery.

“Do you see that?” I asked her.

“See what?” she says.

“That,” I said.

“What,” she asked.

“That hair,” I said.

“Oh it’s lovely dear,” she said.

“What’s lovely about it?” I asked.

“It looks good on you,” she replied.

“How does that look good?” I queried.

“It’s hair…it looks good,” she replied.

“What…are you blind?” I said.

Dead silence…

Of course this is when I notice the turban and the dark glasses she’s wearing.

I look down, and yes, there it is…the seeing eye dog. Yep, he’s got the vest and everything.

“Maybe you should buy a hat asshole?” she said calling on the dog to lead her away from me.

Crap!

This, of course, put an end to my festive shopping. Instead I headed to the drug store for hair dye.

Standing in front of the mirror in my bathroom an hour later, my head smeared with dark cream, I leaned forward to take a gander at my eyebrows.

There it was!

Crap!

One little gray mother-fucker sticking out away from the natural path of the others. Only this kind of close-up inspection would reveal such a betrayer. I reached up, stuck my finger into the shiny hair dye and dabbed it onto both my eyebrows. I stood there looking like a Harpo Marx stand in waiting for the timer to ring out that youth had been restored.

That was when another thought hit me. Oh no! What about…?

I had my first Brazillion later that day!

Part III–Waiting is…


…not my thing.  It never has been. I want what I want when I want it and that’s that!

Tick tock, tick tock.

For three days I paced back and forth watching for the mailman. I felt a little like a stalker.

Day four arrives and I see him approaching my mailbox with a small package. Finally!

I run to the end of the driveway and stick my arm through the iron gate so he can bi-pass the box and put it directly in my hands. I’m sure I must look like one of those movie orphans begging for ‘more please’, but I don’t care what he thinks as he watches my arm wave around like it’s possessed, like I’m some kind of complete idiot. Whatever is in that box is going to change my life so leaving a good impression on him is absolutely the last thing on my mind. He hands me the mail then hightails it back to his truck.

As  I walk back towards the front door of my house I feel like I’m walking on cloud nine. It’s like I’m holding in my hands  the secret to life, the serum of youth, the magic that will turn me from Mamma bear back into the cougar I once was.

My imagination during these magical moments of possibilities is running amok because I think I can actually feel my skin tightening with each step. Even better I feel a tingle in my groin. Whehaw!

So that gets me to thinking that if just looking at the box is doing this, the actual taking of these precious little drops was going to be over the top.

I set the box down on the counter in my kitchen and get a knife from the drawer. With the precision of a sushi chef preparing a piece of fine tuna I sliced the tape open, cracked the top of the box open, and there they were–two little brown bottles filled with, well, I don’t exactly know what’s inside them but I didn’t care. The blonde bombshell doctor said this was going to solve a lot of the problems I was experiencing.

I took the bottles to my bathroom upstairs and shut the door. I wanted privacy because this felt like a right-of-passage to me. I was about to experience something that would turn back the hands of time, at least that’s what I was hoping for.

I opened the estrogen first and watched as the whitish serum uploaded into the little squirter thing. I stuck my tongue up and out and raised the dropper towards my open mouth. I stepped closer to the mirror so I could see better and not miss the target.

One drop, two drops…

I swished them around in my mouth for about thirty seconds like directed then swallowed.  Then, like an idiot, I stood there staring at myself as though I was actually going to witness something miraculous. I leaned in closer to inspect the small nasty jowls that had changed my once lovely oval face into a some kind of boxy cartoon character shape but nothing was happening. My dimples did not suddenly reappear as expected, my wrinkles remain untouched, and my neck…well, that little mother-fucker of amassed freckled flesh sat in the same puddle as before.

WTF?

Where was the magic?

My mind of course reeled out of control at the though that the other hormone, testosterone, was going to yield the same effect. But I persevered and uncapped it anyway.

One drop was all I was supposed to take but two fell into my mouth so fast it took me by surprise.

“Oops!”

My mind once again started racing forward.

Maybe I should have pre-lingeried in case I had a sudden urge to mount my husband.

I looked at my watch and again I waited.

There was one brief moment when I thought I felt my nipples tingle but upon further inspection it turned out to be nothing more than a few errant crumbs from my earlier breakfast toast rubbing relentlessly between the material of my housecoat and my skin every time I moved.

The anticipation of my clitoris turning into a heat-seeking vessel made my body flush–for about one second and then nothing, nothing, and nothing!

I bowed my head down and started to pray that I could simply will this shit to kick in…but still nothing!

That’s when I saw the tiny note at the bottom of the box. I picked it up and read it. A tear came to my eye.

It would take a few weeks for this stuff to kick in as well.

Crap!

The first week passed slowly. Still nothing. No youth, no horny…nada.

The second week brought a slight change. I was actually sleeping a little better than I had been so that was at least a little something.

I guess my husband had also been anticipating my horny as well because he was constantly walking around with a boner ‘just in case’ it kicked in. That would also explain the pained look I was seeing on his face whenever we were in the same room, and yes it would also explain the new bottle of personal lubricant I discovered by the bedside. Poor bugger!

Somewhere during the middle of that second week though I noticed something peculiar.

I was blow drying my hair early one morning but I had to keep stopping so I could figure out where the hell this foul odor was suddenly coming from. It was an assault as deadly as someone smacking me in the nose with a baseball bat. WTF?

Yep…every time I raised my arms if filled the room. I kept turning around to see if hubby had sneaked in but, to my dismay, I was the only one in the room.

I have not worn deodorant since I was in my teens because I never had to. I was blessed with sweet smelling sweat glands I guess. But this!!!! Whew!!!!! This was not good.

The blonde bombshell had forewarned me this could happen and so it was.

I thought to myself, okay, wearing deodorant isn’t that bad. I could do that no problem. It was no big deal. It occured to me that I should look for the other foretold side affects as well so I set the blow dryer down and stepped closer to the mirror.

Holy crap! Those two little plucker hairs I’d finally made peace with beneath my chin had multiplied tenfold. That prompted me to open my housecoat and check out my one or two little nipple hairs.

OMG!

There was enough hair there now to actually do a little comb-over. Again I felt my body flush and started tearing through the drawer looking for my husbands shaver. No matter what else I’d let slide as far as my body was concerned, this was not going to be one of them.

At that point I could hear hubby coming down the hall towards the bathroom and I started to panic. I slid the shaver across my nipple and dislodged the little toupee in record time. I dropped the razor into the sink and threw a towel over it as the door opened. In he walked with his morning boner and he sees me standing there with my housecoat open, my breasts exposed, and his eyebrows shoot up in question. I know what he’s thinking and it pains me as I frown and shake my head in a no motion.

His shoulders slump, as does his penis, and he heads towards the toilet.

Flash forward to month two.

Testosterone is not my friend.

Body odor, hair shooting out of places it shouldn’t were just not my cup of tea. The fact that I never got that ‘fuck-me-now-or-die’ feeling, and the fact that I was shaving more than my husband put a kabosh on the whole thing. All in all, our sex life after thirty-two years is still pretty damn great so why mess with it if it ain’t really broken.

The estrogen on the other hand has made life more doable and more enjoyable. I guess what it boils down to is you’ve got to pick your poison wisely. You have to learn to settle on being happy for even the smallest of wonders.

Part 1 — Hormones are…


…to a women’s body what motor oil is to a car. Let one or the other run dry and you’re gonna be stuck with a cracked block, spark plugs that don’t fire, or worse yet, a completely fucked up out of commission engine. This is not a good thing for you or anyone in close proximity.

Not only will your crank shaft be cranky, your axel frozen, you’ll also discover that your tranny and oil well will no longer be willing to accept a dip stick!

Oh yes, these little hormone buggers are the nectar of life for women who’ve begun that descent into that ‘middle place’.

In my book, anything is game when the well has run dry.

I knew something was really wrong when I started cursing at inanimate objects around the house.

My brand spanking new refrigerator was the first to suffer under my barrage of obscenities. It failed me so many times in my plight to ward off hot flashes. It’s one of those new energy-efficient ones with all the compact shelves. Once you’ve shopped and piled the stuff inside, there’s little or no room for any body parts, not even my teeny-weeny head. The only appliance, as you very well know, that was off-limits to my tirades was the washing machine. WE have a special relationship.

So once again I’d drag my ass off to the doctor’s office, roll my sleeve up, stick my arm out and demand they draw blood.

“I’m ready, go ahead,” I’d say.

The young tech would approach warily. Being around anyone who is hormonally imbalanced can strike absolute fear in even the most confident professional.

She’d motion me towards the chair. I’d stomp over and plop down in the worn leather seat.

“You’re gonna feel a little prick,” she’d say.

“I know, my husband already told me the same thing this morning,” I’d shoot back.

She’d blush but otherwise ignore my glare. She’d tie off my upper arm to create pressure, then she’d use two fingers to tap the area where my veins were supposed to be. After a few minutes of this she decides she’s found a likely target and jabs the needle into my flesh. She twists the needle back and forth like she’s excavating a mine.

“You’re hurting me,” I’d say.

“No I’m not, if you’d stop squirming,” she’d say.

“I’m not squirming, I’m sitting here like a rock,” I’d say. “You’re the one squirming.”

“No…I’m not squirming, I’m just trying to find your vein,” she’d say.

“It’s right there…I can see it plain as day,” I’d offer.

“No. That’s not the right vein, it’s not the one I need,” she’d say.

“Don’t you just need one with blood in it?” I’d ask.

“Shhhhhhh…!” she’d say.

“You’re shushing me,” I’d ask.

“Yes,” she’d say.

“Maybe you should try the other arm,” I’d offer.

“Maybe you should just shut up and let me do my job,” she’d say.

It’s pretty hard not to notice that after two or three minutes have passed there has yet to be even one drop of blood drawn.

“Mmmmmm….” I utter as I watch that little elbow crook starting to turn black and blue.

“I’m going to try the other arm,” she says withdrawing the needle.

“Whatever….” I’d say.

We repeat the procedure, tie off the arm, pat the skin, stick the needle in, start searching once again for the elusive vein.

I decide to concentrate on the lively gardening conversation going on between a few of the other nurses in the office.

“It took all day to dig that sucker out,” says nurse #1.

“I know what that’s like, I had this tree once whose roots were everywhere. Took me the better part of the day to get them all out,” nurse #2 replies.

“Hey,pssst!” I say to get their attention. “You guys should hire this one, she can dig like nobodies business.”

“Ouch,” I say as she twists the needle in revenge for my comment.

I see the smirk on her face.

“Sorry,” she says as though I’d actually believe her.

“Maybe someone else should do this,” I say hoping she will stop moving the needle around.

“Why are you whining,” she says.

“I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve been in there seven or eight minutes now and there’s still no blood in that little vial,” I’d say.

That does it for her. She pulls the needle out, undoes the little rubber tourniquet and rips it away from my arm. Of course now all the hair that was under the little rubber thingy is now missing.

“I’ll get the doctor,” she says turning away from me.

“Shit,” I think to myself.

I hear her shoes clickity-clacking all the way down to the end of the hall.

Then–dead silence.

The other nurses stare at me.

I love my gynecologist but she’s one of those slam, bam, thank you ma’am kind of doctors. There’s no fucking around with her. She’s a specialist so her time is very valuable. She’s that git er done gal.

The spark of fear hits me when I hear her heels clomp-clomp on the pristine wood floors that she’s recently installed. I can feel my pulse begin to race. I know what I’m in for and I say to myself “why can’t you just shut your mouth you idiot. Now look what you’ve done.”

I can see from the look on her face she’s not exactly happy to be called upon for this chore because I’m sure she has better things to do than try to suck my blood out.

“Hi there,” I say hoping my friendliness will diffuse her ire because my veins are such a pain in the ass and she has far better things to do than this mundane simple procedure.

There is no response though, nada, nothing, not even a peep. She just stares at the crook of my arm as she snaps the rubber gloves on. She grabs the little tourniquet and ties it around my arm. As I look down to watch her in action I’m fascinated by the fact that I can see all my little hairs waving around as though saying goodbye because they didn’t have time the first time.

“How are the kids?” I ask trying to get her to relax.

“Fine,” she says. Then I realize that when you have kids you are never relaxed. Wrong question I guess.

BAM! Needles in and the exploration begins all over again.

I grit my teeth forcing my mouth to stay shut.I watch the needle zig north and south, east and west.

The whole time I’m wondering where the fuck my blood is. Had it too gone the way of my hormones?

“I guess I’m just fresh out,” I say jokingly.

Her expression turns to stern concentration. By now my toes are curling and it’s hard to keep my butt down on the chair. Another twist, another turn and I’m now ready for take off. But then I see one precious drop of blood slowly sliding down the side of the clear glass vial.

“Eureka,” I yell out.

“We’re almost there,” she says.

She plunges the needle deeper and a little to the left, and a little to the right.

And suddenly, there it is. That wonderous red liquid is now flowing into the tube at a rapid rate.

“Fucking eh beatch!”

She looks up at me and it’s then I realize I said this out loud.

“Are you whining?” she asks.

Again, I deny that I’m whining as I blink back the tears I’m trying to force back into my tear ducts.

She rips the tourniquet off so the blood will flow like a river. Again I notice there is a new barren spot on my arm. I’d once considered shaving that unsightly hair off my arms and this might just be the catalyst for doing just that.

My body, after all this trauma, is more than willing to give up eight or so vials of blood.

I ask her if she needs more than that? I ask her if she can just keep some on file so we don’t have to repeat this dastardly procedure for a while?

Again, that look, the one that tells you you’re a complete moron.

“We’ll call you with the results,” she says sliding the needle out of my arm.

She rips the gloves off and without further ado makes her way back down the hall to her ‘real’ patients.

I roll my sleeve down and go over to the desk to check out.

“That’ll be $40 dollars,” the receptionist says.

“$40 dollars, I’m gonna need that to buy makeup to cover these marks on my arm,” I tell her.

“Funny,” she says. “Give me the $40 bucks.”

“Whatever,” I shoot back.

Three o’clock that afternoon the phone rings.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” the receptionist says.

“What’s the good news,” I ask her.

“Your check cleared,” she says.

“What’s the bad news,” I ask.

“You’ve got no hormones,” she says.

“None?” I ask.

“None, nada, nothing. You’re running on empty,” she says. “You need to come back right now and we’ll give you some.”

“Will there be any little pricks involved?” I ask not knowing anything about the delivery of such medications.

“No, just cream,” she says.

Again, I’d heard the same thing from my husband that same morning after the ‘little prick thing’ was denied. I was starting to feel like they were all conspiring against me.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I tell her.

“We’ll be waiting with bated breath,” she says as though mocking a women in my condition is not a bad thing.

Ten minutes later I open the door to their office. The nurses scatter trying to avoid direct contact with me now that I am officially a walking time bomb.

“Should I come in?” I ask motioning to the door that leads to the examination rooms.

“Nooooooooo!!!!!!,” the receptionist manages to squeak out. “I’ll show you what to do from here if you don’t mind.”

She shoves a small bottle across the counter. I pick it up and pop the top off. She does the same with her sample bottle.

The demonstration lasts about five seconds. Pump once, rub the cream on your forearm.

I do what I’m told then I stand there waiting for some kind of reaction. The three of them just stare at me wondering what I’m doing.

“What?” I ask.

“Ummmm…….it takes about two to three weeks to take affect,” she says taking a few steps back from the counter.

“What?” I ask as though I’ve heard her wrong.

“Look, I’m just the messenger,” she says. “It takes two to three weeks before you’ll start feeling more like yourself.”

“Whatever,” I say.

I toss the bottle into my bag and as I turn to leave I see a few of her pregnant patients sitting there, staring at me.

“Yeah, that’s right. Enjoy your hormones while you’ve got em!” I say.

…to be continued!