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.


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?”


“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!


…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….


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?


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!


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……..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!


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!



…is not something I’ve thought of in a long time, mainly because the kids are grown now.

I’d like to think it was something I could still do, because God knows I could use a break from them, but alas, the time for this has come and gone!

They (the children) haven’t gotten out yet, but they have matured some. Well, matured may be giving them a little too much credit at this point. Let’s just say they’ve encountered several birthdays since the old camp days.

God I love ‘em, but boy, what I could do with their rooms if they were empty. Just sayin…

When they were little, I’d send them off with their cute little bags, their socks stuffed with snacks I knew wouldn’t be allowed. I’d help them sneak in soda so they could maintain their sugar level. I was bad! But I was smart enough never to give them cell phones. Last thing I wanted was for those little buggers to pester me.

But….my cell-phone-less children loved me for it!

I was the Goddess who provided them with a sufficient amount of junk/crap/bad food, thus in their minds, I was good.

I was the perfect mother!

I had IT!

I rocked their world and that’s all that mattered!

But I knew.

I was the devil in disguise is what I was!

But I didn’t give a flying fuck.  It got them out of the house and out of sight for a while. I could R.E.L.A.X!

I wouldn’t have to pick up their dirty clothes, or make their bed, or cook for them, or chauffeur them, or do their homework, or drive them to school, or the dentist, or the doctor, or the park, or to a play date, or entertain and babysit their friends, which was often the case.

never took the blame when a zit popped up on their face, nor when they’d spike a little belly fat.

Never, ever,  once, did I blame it on the sugar or my poor choices.

I always put it back on them.  Told them it was because they never kept their face clean. It was plain old dirt that caused those zits, and as for the belly fat, well, that was caused by their lack of exercise, lazy little sots that they were. It was the damned video games that would take the fall for any excess bulges they encountered. I’ll be damned if they think I’m going to take the blame for that.


So back to me…

I hadn’t really thought about sending myself off to sleep away camp until recently. It would be just what the doctor ordered!

No kids, no husband, no dog, no house, no house cleaning, no phone, no need to be anywhere, (kids) no…Mom where’s the…can we go…can I have…can you get me…will you…why can’t I… (husband) where’s dinner…can we walk now…how about a blow job…did you iron my shirt… (dog) where’s my damned breakfast…why isn’t the front door open…can I have a treat…where’s my toy…I need to walk now I have to poop…

Just thinking about eliminating all of the above makes. my. nipples. hard!

At his point in my life it takes a bit of effort to make that happen…but the thought of sleep away camp somehow sounds sooooo intriguing right now because I’m a homebody, a housewife, a mate, a mother, a teacher, a mentor, a negotiator, a referee, a sex slave, an organizer, a multi-tasker, a confidant, and chief cook and bottle washer.

Many times, in the middle of the night, (and I mean the middle of the night when the moon is straight over the house and most normal people are still sleeping), I am sitting at my computer googling far off places, people and things that are exotic, erotic, and far from home (should I also say far from my comfort zone?).

My imagination takes a journey (as it often does). I can visualize myself, off in the distance, where the water and sand come to life on my computer screen.

I’m lying on a beach (or depending on your budget an unfamiliar well stuffed couch). You’ve got a tall cool drink in one hand and a delicious novel (insert cough) or at least something novel in the other. Oh my! You let your mind wander around someone else’s words (or…well never mind) and you’re transported to wherever the story/person/thing takes you…

Meals magically appears before you, served by some young stud/man/boy who no doubtedly doubles as an actor later on in his day. You can’t help notice the tight black pants, the crisp white shirt, the smell of freshly showered skin, the…

Ah Jees!

It ain’t ever going to happen but dream we shall.

You are served morning, noon, and night. (again this is where a good imagination comes in handy)

There is nothing to pick up, clean up, put up with, or put out to.

It’s just you and this delicious dream.

But wait!

What is that I hear off in the distance as the sun crests the east.

Oh crap!

I’ll be back.

I have to get coffee for the hubby.

A Mid-Life Crisis…

…used to be a lot more fun back in the day.

Back then, people had jobs! Money was not an issue.

At least it wasn’t as big of an issue as it is now, right?

Oh Yeah! Back in the ‘olden days’ you could yell and scream at the hubby about whatever. He’d huff and puff, then high-tail it out of the house like a man with pants on fire. It was instant ‘fuck you’ mode on both sides. They’d do anything just so they didn’t have to see your lips moving.

But you didn’t care.

You just wanted peace and quiet. Why? Because it was a power surge back then! It made you feel like you had some sort of control over your life, it gave you some weird woman power instead of lolling about in the kitchen everyday trying to decide what to make for dinner. You could yell and make his ass move quicker than a Toyota with a faulty gas pedal.

They’d dash to the car, jump in, turn it on, rev the engine so you’d know exactly how much testosterone they needed to burn off, then they’d screech down the driveway, and burn rubber as they fled down the street.

But now? Mmm…!

Not so much.

What are they going to do?

Since economic recovery is still a thing rolling around in the hopeful part of our imagination, their choices are much more limited. Unless they golf or partake in some other get-hair-on-your-chest activity, it’s kind of bleak for them. At some point, you might actually feel a little sorry for them.

There’s no more money left for that little red Corvette! That penis on wheels is a thing of the past.

Now if hubby storms off it’s almost laughable. Because what are they going to storm off in….a fucking Prius? Now there’s a hard on if you’ve ever seen one. Whoo Hoo! If their really lucky they may be able to find a shiny black one, because to this day I’ve never seen a red one.

I mean picture it. They’ve had enough. They’ve got that cartoon cloud of bubbles raging all around them. They storm off to the garage, jump in the car and then zoom off at the speed of, oh wait, they can’t speed off, but they can go quietly.

Not exactly what they had in mind to burn off that testosterone driven feeling of flying off to wherever the hell they decided to go in the first place.

There’s no longer disposable cash for the old hooker trick either. Nope! Now they gotta find that for free too, because our United States Of America’s stimulus package is not coming from the Government either.

Our new stimulus package now has to come from the doctor or the internet , in the form of Viagra, Cialis or some other pecker perker upper.  So it’s safe to say, yell away, cause they’re not going to get far.

Ah….Mid-Life. It’s just not the same anymore!



…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.


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.



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.


“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?

Facebook Friends…

…really, really piss me off sometimes. They spout off with their daily accomplishments like we should all give a shit.

Well, I’ve had it.

This letter is to my friend Ruth.


Did I just use your real name.


Sorry about that! It just kind of slipped out (on purpose).

From here on in the world will only know you as “The Gourmet Bitch…who works a gazillion hours a week, tends to her children and husbands needs, runs marathon’s, yet can still manage to rush home from a 14 hour flight after a business trip and whip up something that I would pay a lot of money for at one of fabulous eateries here in Los Angeles!


Well, fuck you very much!

This letter speaks for all the other women in the world who can’t, or don’t cook like you, or don’t want to cook like you, you desert serving bit……..

I digress!

Your updates on Facebook make me feel like a completely inadequate moron in the kitchen.

I stoled these from your page just to make my point!

“Just got home from New York. Busy Week. Great seeing and spending time with my family tonightEnjoyed eating dinner outside this evening since it was way too hot to eat indoors. Made Bourbon buffalo wings, corn on the cob, roasted summer vegetables, and peach cobbler for dessert!”

“I’ve been working hard this week. Did a marathon prep, flew to New York, Atlanta, Florida, San Francisco, Japan, Costa Rico, Bali, Australia, England, Paris, but was thinking about being in my kitchen the whole time. Got home late but needed to chill so I prepared grilled salmon in a shallot, garlic, wine, dijon mustard, and wine sauce. Served this with sauteedmushrooms, rice pilaf, and mesculen salad with mandarins and raisins. Mixed berries for dessert.”

“Just ran a 4000 mile marathon, couldn’t wait to get home. We celebrated the beginning of summer by having a family barbecue tonight on the patio. Turkey burgers with avocado, garlic fries, and corn on the cob were on the menu.”



First day of summer we also had a fiesta.  I served up two-day-old re-heated hot dogs because I hate throwing out perfectly good left overs. I also managed to use up all the little ketchup packages left over from Burger King runs! Finished off with a bowl of ice cubes, covered in chocolate syrup, with a ‘just about ready to toss‘ strawberry on top! My family believes me when I tell them I peel the berries for easier digestion.  The reality is, I can’t stand throwing them out just because they have a few little black spots on them here and there. Mm-mm-yummy!

Oh, and did I mention we used real cloth napkins instead of paper towels. My kids eyes lit up when the saw them because they know I only use them when I’ve gone all out. 

The ice-cube dessert was the piece de-resistance (and absolutely necessary)  because I’d accidentally spilled a bottle of hot sauce on the dogs before I threw them on the grill. Not talking B-B-Que either. You see, I found this amazing pan I can put on the stove. It adds those little grill marks so it looks like I’ve gone the extra mile for them. Before anyone actually gets to the kitchen after I bellow that dinner is ready, I rush outside, open and close the grill, shutting it loud enough for even my neighbors to here so the facade of grilling is what they’ll recall later in life when talking about my prowess as a Gourmet cook.

My children accepted years ago that gourmet cooking meant that that can of Chef-Boy-R-Dee came from the ‘special’ shelf at the grocery store.  

And then…….get this!

I recently hit the mother lode, when they announced they were adding a whole serving of vegetable to each can of Ravioli, Spagetti-O’s, and the rest of their gourmet’ line.

Not only did they love it, they really, truly appreciated the presentation.  Since they’re such fast food junkies, meaning they’ll eat anything that comes in a bag or box, I went to great pains to salvage dozens of take out bags from the trash. I spent countless hours getting the grease stains or ketchup off the bag so it would appear good as new.

Their familiarity of said bags has always made my job infinitely easier. You see, it really didn’t matter what I put inside. Whatever was in the bag was going to be Godhead in their stomach. My youngin’s would look at me like I was a Goddess in the kitchen!


My only mistake was friending them on Facebook!

This is not good.

They’ve seen your posts. Or rather, they’ve devoured your posts!

Now I have to really fucking cook because they sit in the kitchen with me, thank you very much!

The premise for this is that they want to spend more time with me now, just like you guys do. They want to help me. So much for my dreams about the empty nest! I can’t even have an empty kitchen now because of you!

As much as I like you I’ve no alternative but to un-friend you.



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!


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…..”


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!


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.


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. 

New Unemployment Statistics…

…are proof that unemployment is still vastly out of control.


Looking for work is my new full-time job!

If they could make this a paying position, I’d be stinking rich right now.

Hubby asked me the other day, “What kind of jobs are you looking for?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I suppose at this point I’ll take just about anything.” I say flippantly.

He doesn’t move away, which causes me to lose focus on the computer.

I look up at him standing there square in front of me.

I see the gleam in his eye.

He’s so transparent.

“Well, when you’re done on the computer, I’ve got a job for you,” he offers.

As though I didn’t know that was coming.

I try to look all shy and shit, but he waits for it.

He knows me better than that!

“Asshole!” My standard reply after all these years together. “Get in line buddy!” I say, confident that this will, okay maybe not absolutely positively, make him pause and wonder what I actually do when I leave the house, then come home still unemployed.

I know I’m a great asset to any company. Or maybe, it’s just that I have a reasonably great ass that any company would want to have around.

I’ve had exactly…

Okay. So. No. One. Else. has offered this type of employment in a while, but I sure as hell am not going to let him think that he’s the only recruiter that’s checked out my resume or credentials.

Fuck that!

After 32 years of marriage, you’ve got to work a lot harder at making the spouse jealous, but I consistently try. It keeps things interesting!

An hour later, I close the computer. I’m frustrated!

I want a job!

Any Job!

I go upstairs only to discover he’s in the shower.

I see his pants on the floor.


I rustle through his pockets and find his wallet.



Seems he’s freakin loaded today.

Perhaps a little part time job at this moment won’t be so bad after all.

I pocket a $100 bill.

I get undressed, then join him in the shower.

I try to look business like!

“Coming to apply for the job?” he says with that come hither look spread across his face.

“Will there be overtime?”

“With any luck,” he says. “With any luck!”