Parenting tip:


You can borrow socks from the floor in your daughter’s room anytime.
You cannot borrow socks from the floor in your son’s room until he has a girlfriend!

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Wording IS Everything…


Been married to the hubby for 35 years!

So, last night I crawl into bed.
Hubby says: “I think I’m in an oral phase right now!”
Well, if that doesn’t get a woman’s nipples hard, right?
I got all giddy, rolled over towards him, adjusted my ‘pajamas’, looked him straight in the eye and said: OH MY GOD…me too! So…………what do you want to talk about?

Wearing My Big Girl Pants…


As I’ve aged, I’ve discovered one thing to be perfectly true about myself. My mind has a tendency to wander. Have you seen that new kitchen gadget that’s supposed to make your life that much easier? Umm…actually, wander is probably too gentle a description to describe how my self-deprecating, and still un-medicated brain cells work. Racing is probably the right word. Yep, that bitch races like she’s part of an AARP NASCAR event on steroids.  No control, and most certainly…NO filters!

But I don’t worry too much about it. First off, I’m too old to care what people think, and secondly, I know people now, and my new best friend just happens to be a bail bondsman, so I pretty much say or do whatever I feel like saying or doing now!  If you’re menopausal, you will completely understand why you should have people like this on the same page as you.

Anyway, the other day I was busy plucking one of those stray eyebrows that seems to always pop up in several places on my chin, and on my other chin, when all of a sudden, out of the blue, my mind took a turn and raced backwards to that time in my life where this kind of grooming was for old broads unheard of.

I was remembering when I was that ‘skinny, perfect, glamo-rama’ girl. Holy crap! That was the greatest time of my life!

Back then, in my almost famous era, I never, ever considered leaving the house unless I was camera ready, just in case the paparazzi got wind that I was out and about!  Those days were spectacular!

I was in my twenties then. I had the world by the balls, and let me tell you…those balls were enormous. I could juggle them and never miss a beat. My boobs were perky and there was only one level to my chin and my butt. I wore crop tops, short shorts, mini skirts and, O.M.G. fuck me high-high-heels!  Of course, this last item may very well be the reason I can longer tippy-toe around today!

Back in that day…

…my thigh’s never rubbed together.

…my underarms never jiggled.

…my ass never undulated.

…my stomach was as flat as a washboard.

…my skin was taut and sprung back like a rubber band.

…and my neck, well, it’s something I usually prefer not to talk about, but back in the day…oh, it was flawless.

I had no skin crevices yet, no barnacles springing up, no wrinkles, no age spots, and no cellulite…nada! I was perfect in every way. (Of course, this is what I tell myself now as I look back on the journey to where I am today.)

I never once feared reflective surfaces during those early years. As a matter of fact, I was actually drawn to them, relentlessly, because back then, that was my job. You know, being beautiful, being on television, being photographed on a daily basis. I spent every waking moment working diligently towards keeping myself in my ‘perfection’ mode! How I looked back then was my moneymaker. I was a model/actress and eventually, after my daughter hit middle school, I had proudly moved into M.I.L.F mode! (If you don’t know what that is, I suggest you Google it!)

But here I am today. All of a sudden, thirty years have flown by. Lot’s of things have changed, relocated or…umm…nope, every thing has pretty much relocated. It’s then I realize that, when I see someone staring at me now, my inner ego springs to attention and I find my hand automatically going to my chin first (to check for gangly strays) and then to my upper lip because I may have left my humble domicile without shaving that small mustache that’s taken up residence between my nose and upper lip. And if that’s all okay, I then check to make sure that the girls are safe and sound in my bra because I’ve caught them trying to sneak out the side of it every so often because I’m so damned cheap now. I still try to wear my old bra’s that contain not one stinking thread of spandex in it, so I completely understand why the girls doth protest on occasion. It keeps life interesting, that’s for sure.

These days, working in and through the fucking fantastic menopause phase, everything has changed about me, including my demeanor. I can clear a room in less than five seconds if my hormone level has taken a dive. My wrinkles laugh lines have become deeper, and I can now actually, truthfully, answer that age-old question of ‘do your boob’s hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow’? And the answer to that my friends is…YES, YES, YES, YES…they do…and I can!

I have also discovered that my body had lost all of its moisture producing abilities, which sometimes proves embarrassing. The other day I had lunch with a friend. When I arrived at the table she reached out to touch my pants and asked me if they were corduroy. I had to admit to her that, NO, they were not, it’s just the sound my vagina makes now when I walk because I sometimes forget to use a vaginal moisturizer. Bitch please! She’s the same age as me. She should know better than to assume the noises my body makes now are not due to costume malfunctions.

As for the elasticity of my skin, well, that’s also gone to hell in a hand basket. Here’s a perfect example of how bad it is. Last week I got out of bed, walked down the hall to the bathroom and when I got there, I realized only one of the girls had come with me. I guess that my husband, at some point during the night, had rolled over on top of the other one, so yeah, the bitch was still snuggled up underneath him somewhere. I had to sit there on the toilet, bracing myself with both hands on the wall just in case he happened to roll over and free her before I peed and got back into bed.

Oh yeah! Menopause is grand. Wearing my big girl pants is mostly fun!

All in all, when my estrogen patch has been safely installed somewhere on my groin, life is pretty damned good. My kids are still alive (only because I discovered my hormone deficiency early on)! My husband still loves me warts and all, and my dog? Well, bless his heart. He still nose butt’s me in the ass after I’ve been gone all day, even though my gastro problems have grown exponentially during this sacred phase of my life!

Yep, I’m a big girl now. Attitude is everything, right?

Stay At Home Moms…


…are the envy around the world. Oh yes they are alrighty!

You can bet your bottom dollar on that!

Every woman dreams of throwing in the towel, of forgoing the demands of deadlines, the clock in, the per diem lunch, the company of both male and female coworkers (who become their social life), the trips to lands both National or International while creating spellbinding deals for this or that, all paid for of course, on someone else’s dime.

Yes, these woman would gladly forgo their hefty pay checks and bonuses, the medical and dental benefits, the 401K’s, the paid vacations, the paid sick leave, the maternity leave, and whatever else falls under the leave benefits. They’d gladly pack in the business suit, the tummy tucking taupe/nude/ecru and special occasion black panty hose, the pumps and all the pomp  and pompousness, just so they too can spend their day lounging about in their stretchy little designer sweatsuits.

And let me tell you, there’s nothing like a huge, sloppy ‘Juicy’ , ‘Pink’ or ‘Tap This, Not That’ logo  splashing boldly across the ass of your freshly washed sweat pants. Personally, having hit menopause, I’ve altered all of mine. I think they’re cute…hubby disagrees! My favorite so far are the stretchy, velvety black ones with the logo, ‘CLOSED DUE TO GAS LEAK!’ A little bold but it does the trick.

Yeah, I must tell you that I dream about my days at home. Seriously! It’s bliss in a spray can, especially when you live by the motto, CAN do! Right on eh!

Sometimes early in the morning, while I’m still in my fuzzy housecoat, (yes, I’m talking early morning as in 3 am) I load up my pockets with a can of Pledge, Windex, rags and that fucking amazing Mr. Clean Miracle Eraser that can take the paint off right your car in one easy swipe. OH MY GOD! I bow to the inventors of this brilliant cleaning device.

I love to wrap my hands around that baby, especially a fresh new one right out of the box, because I know I, me, the stay-at-home Goddess I’ve become, am going to create incredible little cleanliness miracles all over the house. Oh yeah baby! This is like a Stay At Home Mom orgasm. Yes indeedy! Fingerprints…pfff! Missed shot-middle-of-the-night pee…no problem! Coca Cola sprayed on the ceiling…I got you bitch!

If only it could wipe out entire rooms? Now that could save me so much time, I might actually be able to do my nails once in a while!   Or I could sit down and read a book with my champagne and bon bon’s in my stretchy sweat pants!

Every night, right before I fall asleep, I try to conjure up juicy fantasy’s I run through the list of things I’ve got on tap for the following day, and I’m gonna let you in on a little secret here. It really helps if you put the most enjoyable task last because it may inspire your dreams. And who doesn’t love dreaming about clean, starched, neatly folded laundry, or seeking out that cute little shovel you bought with the intention of using it to hone your gardening skills, but  which you’ve recently discovered works equally as well for cleaning up the little chocolate blessings your dog has left for you in both the front, side and back yards.

And who can resist the sound of that freshly disinfected brush as it wipes away remanent’s from your slaved over dinner from the previous night. Oh, we stay at home mom’s live for the moment we see that Tony Curtis twinkle emanating from every toilet bowl in the house. You know, I even bought into that stupid, ridiculous, cleaning commercial where those little scrubbers that talk and wisk themselves around the toilet bowl. Well, let me tell you, it’s bullshit. I sat there for an hour the other waiting for them to appear after spraying the bowl, and nothing! Not one cute little brush appeared. I might have to sue someone over this.

 

 

…to be continued!

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!

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!