EMPTY NESTERS…


…got it going on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ring, Ring…

Good Morning, Rapid Pest Control

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

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

Me:  No…..just the children!

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

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

CLICK!

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

Ring, Ring…

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

Me:  Are you looking for kids up for adoption?

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

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

Operator:  Ma’am, are you alright?

Me: I will be once you take the children.

Operator: Um…

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

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

Me:  25 and 18.

Click!

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

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

Sheesh!

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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!

Communication Is…


…key in every relationship!

It doesn’t matter whether you’re talking about a personal, social, or business relationship, because if you don’t carefully word what is about to squeeze out of your lips, you’re probably going to get screwed.

What you say…better mean exactly what you mean, because words can be misconstrued so easily these days.

If you really want your partner to listen to every word you say…talk in your sleep. Most men will wake to the slightest verbage coming from a woman’s lips once they’re under the covers.

I’ve had a few beneath the duvet, sweaty, roll-about, night-night conversations that have only served to confuse my husband.

“Run….RUN…” (could simply mean I’m about to let one rip, or, the dog has gotten himself into yet another predicament!)

“Touch it and pull back a bloody stub…” (could mean just what it says aka: ‘Hands Off’…or…it could be a prolific hint not to wake me up!)

“That’s on sale, fantastic!” (all men hope to hear this come from their woman’s lips!)

“Oh…..Yes…yes….yes!” (this will keep them paralyzed as they wait for the rest, hoping you’ll whisper their name somewhere in the rest of that phrase.)

On the other, men usually respond best to eye-to-brain, or more likely eye-to-groin sensory tactics.

If you want your man to listen to you, just wear a low-cut top. For many years women have always complained that their man stares at them and never listens to them.

Sure…there’ll be no eye contact, but they’ll be mesmerised long enough to hear every word you say. I know this for a fact.

After years of being a cops and crime reporter, I realized this was the quickest way to ascertain many of the fine details about a case I’d be reporting on. The detectives would be mesmerized, completely enamored with the girls, and would pour their hearts out, which often times led to a phone call later asking me to delete certain information that should not be public yet! Yes, the girls can work their magic just about anywhere and anytime.

Funny thing though, if I ever asked any of these (mostly) male detectives what color my eyes were, they’d often reply, ‘black… with a hint of lace!’

Truthfully, when it comes to communication sometimes you think you’re talking to the wall.

Why?

Because sometimes you are talking to the wall.

For instance, if I ask someone if  they’re done with their dinner plate, they assume I’m waiting to get up and take it to the kitchen for them.

What that really mean is, get off your lazy damn ass and put it in the kitchen yourself!

Better yet, rinse it and put it in the dishwasher. If I wanted to be a maid, I’d go get a job at some luxury hotel who’d pay me to take your Goddamned plate, and I’d have access to all the free bedtime pillow-top chocolates as an added benefit to the job.

When I say WHAT during an argument, it does not mean that you need to answer. It probably means…you should stop talking. Or at least respond with one of three things.

“Honey, would you like to go out to dinner tonight?”

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look today?”

SAFEST BET:

“Honey, let me get you another glass of wine!”

Get it?

When I ask if you have laundry, ditto!

Oh communication is definitely the key to every relationship!

Women love to pontificate about daily happenings even if they’re about completely mundane topics. We like the warm and fuzzy feeling it gives us as we toss about useful and totally ridiculous information.

Men on the other hand keep a cool front. That’s why men are so quick to fall into bed with a woman, even on the first date, because it will usually bring about silence. This is also probably why men fall asleep immediately after sex. Once they’re placated all bets are off.

So don’t believe that bullshit that he won’t respect you if you have sex on the first date.

The worst thing a man can say in the heat of it is C.A.L.M. D.O.W.N!

Not only will this escalate the problem, it will likely be the catalyst for your sleeping on the couch for the next week or so.

Calm down in layman’s terms is the same as saying ‘Shut The Hell Up!’

I’d use this cautiously if I were you. But, if you have the balls to use it, be prepared for the consequences!

‘Chill Out’ is also another verbage that could land you in the dog house…literally!

Women who are told to ‘chill out’ usually do. Meaning, there ain’t no light at the end of the tunnel if you’re expecting a little sum-sum later on. It could lead to a long cold winter in the bedroom.

Oh yes! Words are a funny thing, and not necessarily in a good way!

VAGINA’S…


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

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

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

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

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

She is ‘Occupy The World Via Vagina!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then…

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

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

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

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

Bad Valentine’s Day Gifts (Part II)


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

I ripped off the wrapping and looked at the box.

Lip Plumper….

Mmm…………………….

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

I digress.

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

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

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

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

I decided to try it the next morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~//~

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

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

I startle easily.

I could not see him.

I did not hear him.

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

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

~//~

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

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

He lit up like a fucking firecracker.

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

~//~

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

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

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

If only we could simplify this?

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

Valentine’s Day Gifts…(Part I)


…are always tricky.

Just ask the hubby. He tries. He really does. Bless his heart for putting up with my quirky, wacky way of being.

At this time of year, men and women are scrambling for ‘just the right thing’ to give their significant other.

If it were up to me, because I’m the handyman of the estate, I’d settle on a gift card from Home Depot. They’ve got something for everyone as far as I’m concerned. I love tools!

But because the hubby has this wonderful romantic side, he’s tried just about everything out there to pull me out of the dirt and back into the bedroom. And yes, there are specific tools for the bedroom as well, but that’s a story for another time.

So, I thought I’d compile a list of some of the BEEN THERE–DONE THAT items that have come and gone over the many years we’ve celebrated VALENTINES DAY!

One year he bought me a lovely “RUB ME BAR”!

Are you horny yet? You should be…

The RUB ME BAR is a little round disc of sensual pleasure for your skin. It smells amazing and sounds pretty sexy, right? Oh yeah. Hubby went all out. He made sure the kids were out of the house. He lit the candles in the bathroom. Ran a lovely hot bath. Put the good towels out and everything. We got naked, (do you feel the sexual tension building?), tested the water with our toes, mine painted passion red, his, well, they’re man toes. If I saw polish on them, it’s likely I wouldn’t be crawling into the tub with him. So things are starting off well!

But because I’m such a giver, I decide that once we’re in the bath, I’d use it on him first just in case it had some kind of irritant in it. I have uber-sensitive skin you see, so, if something was going to irritate anything it would show up on him first saving me from scratching all night. Turns out there was nothing in it but pleasure. Oh yeah! He laid back like a dog does when you rub it’s belly. He looked happy and I could see the steam building.

Unfortunately, by the time I was done with him, the entire little disc had turned into WHAT?

GONE–FINITO–DISINTEGRATED!  As in, AIN’T NOTHIN LEFT FOR YOU BEATCH!

So guess who wasn’t getting their fair share of the sexy Rub Me Bar.  Okay, to be fair, hubby did get a boner, and his skin did look silky and smooth next to my dried out sorry ass, but as far as I’m concerned, this gift was self-indulgent. My rating of the RUB ME BAR turned immediately from one of pleasure to one of  “HONEY, THAT RUBBED ME THE WRONG WAY!”

Next up were the game cards. And I’m not talking about playing Gin in bed either, although a bottle of this in the nightstand might come in handy at some point. Whether or not it’s to drink as a mood enhancer, or to pour on a wound after a contortionist act gone wrong, a bottle of anything containing alcohol is always handy to have around.

No, these game cards are more like a POKER deck if you get my drift. I mean literally!

They’re neatly wrapped in these cute little envelopes. Each note has a daring little trick written on it. Something sexy. Something naughty. Some odd position. Some EAT THIS NOT THAT instruction. But, if you’ve read a few previous stories here, you’ll remember that the PARAMEDIC’S WILL NOT RESPOND if your emergency is because you’ve gotten yourself tangled up like a pretzel during sex. They do not consider this an emergency!

If this happens, all you can hope for is that you can reach that bottle of gin so you can drink enough to allow your body to relax enough to eventually untangle itself!

GAME CARDS MY ASS!

Hell. If I can drop my housecoat, and stand there, naked, in front of him–WITH THE FUCKING LIGHTS ON–at this age, I feel like I’ve crossed from the reality zone into the twilight zone anyway. Shouldn’t this be enough?

Games in the bedroom? I don’t know.

I think hubby should be satisfied with the King sized Twister sheets I just bought for our bed. You want games? I’ll give you games. I’ll even let you spin first!

Another gift that turned out to be a bust is what many call the ‘Best Valentine’s Gift Ever’ to give someone.

Oh Yeah. The ‘Great Escape’! Just thinking about it makes me want to rub my nipples! Oh yeah BABY!

A mini-vacation, a get-a-way from it all, a-dream-come-true-time-to-yourself-all-by-yourself-all inclusive-don’t have to do/say/make anything kind of gift! Go on, admit it. If you’re a wife and mother, this is sending a chill down your spine right now. You’re salivating! You’re already mentally packing your bags! I’ve got your number!

When you’re slopping through your chores, schlepping the children to and fro, bathing the dog, fixing a dinner, mending a broken pipe, changing an electrical outlet, doing the 20th load of laundry……Oh Hell, I could go on and on. You know…your daily routine, this gift sounds like God Head!

My hands were shaking when I tore the envelope open. I think I had a tear in my eye, so I didn’t see the details immediately.

The thought of  having only to decide what I wanted for room service, morning, noon, and night, had set my mind on fire. The idea of someone serving me…..food…..drinks…..and then maybe even a splash in the spa pool–ALONE–WITH NO NOISE–WITH NO CHORES–WITH NO CHILDREN BUGGING ME–WITH NO………WELL, YOU GET THE PICTURE!

Instead, I threw my arms around the hubby’s neck in thanks. I’m thinking ‘there is a God’!

As I stood there, I once again looked at the gift certificate. My focus was returning. Wait! Why am I seeing the word GOLF? I bring it closer to my face and see that the getaway is for two!

SON OF A BITCH!

I hug him harder as I read the rest of the details. Then I hug him harder still. I can feel him trying to peel my arms away from his neckas the air is depleting slowly but surely from his lungs, but I’m going to smother him with love. I am going to fight fire with fire. Asshole!

Yes, another self-indulgent gift! Check that one off your list bitches! It’s a trick!

……….STAY TUNED FOR PART 2 OF MY VALENTINE’S GIFT LIST!

10 Sexy Moves…


…that turn your guy on!

Now there’s a headline that’ll catch your eye when you’re menopausal! 

Of course, I had to read it just to see if there was anything that could make me less, you know, mom like and more the wild cougar I know that’s been screaming to be set free for the past decade.

Hell…I know I’ve been slipping, and so have a few other things, but that’s a story for a different story.

I perused the article top to bottom, because hell, I can use all the help I can get. Now don’t get me wrong here. I’ve tried plenty of tricks in my day and I’m sure I’ve still got a few up my sleeve………somewhere–Lurking. Up. By. My. Flabby. Upper. Arm.

A few years back I switched from old-fashioned granny panties to a thong thinking this was uber-sexy. Wrong! Hubby said to me one day, if I want to floss I’ll go into the bathroom and….you get my drift? Turns out he likes a little more coverage. Or, does it mean that there’s more to see than I think there is? Mmm………

I tried installing a stripper pole in the bedroom once but hubby said it was screwing up his direct view of the television. So, being the handy woman I am, I sawed it in two and installed it in my closet so I could hang more clothes, and I have to admit, my clothes actually do look a lot more sexy now. The pole thing really is the bomb!

Mmm……………

Okay, so RULE #1 Talks about makeup, or rather the lack of it.

“Oh, I love how she looks when she wakes up in the morning, fresh, clean, natural…..”

OH. KISS. MY. ASS!

How old are these people they’re talking to, twelve?

At my age, the first thing I usually have to do when I wake up is to pry my top lip off my teeth, because I’ve apparently snored all the moisture out of my body. Or better yet, if I’ve somehow managed to retain a little moisture and managed a drool or two, I have to scrape the 900 count egyptian cotton pillowcase off my cheek because, as far as I can tell, drool contains some kind of secret glue.

Worse case scenario, if I’ve had a few (or a hundred) hot flashes before the ‘rem’ cycle kicks in, which is what brings on the snoring, (no it has nothing to do with pre-bedtime tequila consumption), there’s a good chance that that bottom fitted sheet is going to leave the bed with me when I try to disengage from it because it’s gotten caught up in the crack of my ass like a menopausal wedgie.

The no make up thing?

I don’t think so!

I usually make it a point to sleep with my make-up on in order to prevent any accidental viewings of what I look like before the smoke and mirrors come out.

I remember a couple of years back, I woke up just as it was getting light, and I was feeling a little frisky. I rolled over towards the hubby and ran my hand across his back. This always get’s him going. A moment later he rolls over and slowly opens his eyes. I layed there quietly anticipating some soft sexy whimper to leave his lips telling me how much he wanted me. I think I even batted my eyelashes once or twice trying to build some steam. Instead, he raised himself up on one elbow and looked me directly in the eye with such concern it scared me a little.

He said, ‘What’s the matter, are you sick?”

That’s when I remembered  that I’d showered right before I went to bed and Washed. My. Fucking. Face!


Rule #1 got tossed immediately.

RULE #2 Talks about how men like a woman’s belly to be soft, not skinny and boney. How love handles were just that–love handles!

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…..WE HAVE A WINNER HERE!!!!!!!

I won’t even pontificate about this rule because I happen to have a soft round belly like most women my age!

RULE #3 States that men like our quirky habits.

REALLY?

One of my quirky habits is that I like to renovate, remodel, and rearrange.

I can rip a room down to its studs single-handedly in a couple of hours. This might fall under the premise of insanity rather that just quirky so I’m on the fence about this one really being a quirk. However, it is something I do on a fairly regular basis. My family has learned over time that they should not leave me at home alone longer that two days at a stretch because, on at least one occasion many years ago, I had a very intimate date with my sledgehammer. They were all away and I was trying to get used to some new ‘lose twenty pounds in 24 hours diet pills’ I bought from a middle of the night infomercial. I don’t know what was in said pills but I was bouncing off the wall. Literally!  They came home to an empty kitchen. As in the kitchen was gone…down to the studs, and, I only had to get one tetanus shot.

I think it would be fair to say that hubby definitely does not like my quirks, nor does our bank account!

RULE#4 Says that our significant others like it when we wear our hair natural.

I spend plenty of time trying to tame my long brunette lockes. When left on their own, they form what I call a ‘white afro’, more commonly known as Rosanna Dana Banana (SNL) hair. It’s not curly, yet it’s not straight. It falls into the frizz category. Or what some might call the ‘Medusa Syndrome’. This is where, on my lazy days, my collection of baseball hats comes in handy. You tuck that shit up, or ponytail it under that cap, throw some eyeliner on and a splash of lip gloss, well now you’re talking. I look like any other celebrity trying to dodge the paparazzi. (Remember I live in Hollywood!)

RULE# 5 Goes on about our eyelashes.

How we women use our ‘batting’ ability to drive our men wild. Now, the one thing I am not an expert on is applying false eyelashes. No-siree! This I suck at. I remember one event I was attending where everyone had to look pretty glamorous. I decided that I’d don the falsies just to give my eyes a little zing, you know, that extra little thing so people would notice my gorgeous green eyes. Like all the other women, I pranced around, flaunting my secret little wisps of beauty. I posed for photos. I felt like everyone’s eyes were on me. Some people were actually staring at me, and I thought to myself, all the extra care I took getting ready had been worth it. You know, I looked special! Well the next morning, I couldn’t wait to look on Facebook as there would be a gazillion pictures posted from the event. Sure enough there was post after post, and oddly enough there were several very close up shots of ‘ME’, which was thrilling. at. first. I have pretty bad eyesight so I had to click and enlarge each photo. I felt my heart sink as picture after picture revealed that I had inadvertently attached the false eyelashes on backwards making me look quite cross-eyed. I didn’t even have the heart to read the comments because I knew what it was going to say. The lovely Jacqui Brown, doesn’t she look “SPECIAL”! I think that was the last time I ever wore false eyelashes. If I’m going to bat anything now there’d better be a freaking baseball involved.

RULE #6 Glorifies the smooth leg. Well, whooped-de-do!

Do men actually understand what it takes to keep these legs of ours smooth? How much time we spend wielding a sharp tool against our delicate skin, or how many strips of hot wax we must endure for their silky pleasure?

Personally, this is one of those dastardly tasks I hate because my hair grows in so quickly. The good news for me is that I never wear shorts. Never. Ever! The bad news is I love, love, love linen pants, but linen happens to be one of those materials that can get caught up on things pretty easy. I recall one time walking around, thinking I looked spectacular, when by chance I happened to glance down towards my feet. Sure enough, I’d forgotten to shave that morning and my pant leg was stuck half-way up my shin on some unsightly stubble. Crap! 

RULE #7 Expands on how men like their women’s style.

I most certainly have my own style.

Actually, style might be pushing it.

I’m more like a uniform wearer. Black on top and bottom, black on top with jeans…that’s pretty much it. Only during the summer time does this vary. Then I’m apt to throw on the white linen pants (yes, the same ones that stick to my hairy legs) topped by a black tank top, and often times I cover that with a little vest type garment that allows me to not have to suck in my stomach all the time. As for my hair, it’s pretty much been the same style for thirty-some years. Long and straight, or long with a touch of Rosanna Danna Banana frizz. I usually get it trimmed once a year by a real professional, then I snip and clip it once a month between my yearly visit. This last trim was so that I could look like the menopausal version of Kim Kardashian. I knew this would turn on the hubby so long as his focus stayed above the waist. That bitch has got me so beat in the ass department. But hey, you can’t all!

RULE #8 Your Scent.

I’ve got this one covered now that I’ve stopped taking testosterone.

Who knew the side effects could make you smell like a trucker that’s been on the road too long.

After a few weeks of smelling like a skanky old man, I decided that my libido was going to have to find some other means of returning.

RULE #9 Asking For What You Want

After thirty two years of marriage I don’t ask any more. I blaze my own trail. I do what I want. I go when I want to go. I go where I want to go. I see who I want to see. Of course, since I’m a stay-at-home-mom, the only thing I ask for is enough money to do all the above.

RULE# 10 Your Job  

I can’t actually bust this one since I don’t have a ‘real’ job.

All I do every day, seven days a week is scrub floors, polish & dust, wash windows, wash clothes, iron, grocery shop, vacuum, garden, fix whatever needs to be fixed, cook all the meals, do dishes, referee family debates, placate everyone into happiness, apply medical attention to the accident prone, home school my son, drive and chaperone said son on dates, do the banking, pay the bills on time, renovate anything if I can get away with it,  throw in a blow-job here and there to keep the tension at it’s lowest possible level, and if there’s any time left–I write another book. 

This not working thing is really working for me! So there you have it. 10 rules their way, and ten mine. If you have any other rules you’d like to include, feel free to leave them in the comments and I will take them into consideration. 

Hot sex…


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

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

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

Crap!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WTF?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh honey….did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It’s beeping.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, well…so will this.”

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

Let’s be real hear.

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

Suppleness is…


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

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

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

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

But here’s my new dilemma.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where is the reality here?

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

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

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

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

Yes, you heard me right–vaginal dryness.

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

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

What a bitch!

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

Has it gone the way of my face?

OMG!  Say it isn’t so!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I digress.

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

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

I think this is a gimme here!

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