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.


…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.


…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?

Getting Older…

…sucks sometimes.

Actually–it sucks all the time, right?

Now I’m not talking about your everyday normal shit like wrinkles or saggy skin, although those two particular things make me want to destroy every reflective surface on earth. We already know those things are going to atrophy as we age. They’re predictable and inevitable.

What I’m talking about is when your chassie starts altering itself…


Here’s my latest problem:

My damn hip tends to crack a lot as does my back, especially during sex. So, after much deliberation, I decided to bite the bullet and head off to see the chiropractor.

Now, I’m one of those people who hates to waste time, so I usually try to book the first appointment of the day. Easy in, easy out!

At 8:45 a.m. I pull into the parking lot. At 8:52 a.m. I walk in the door, sign in, then take the clipboard with the forms I’m asked to fill out. By 8:56 a.m. I return the clipboard to the lovely receptionist. She flips the page checking my cognitive prowess, then asks me to follow her. She leads me into an exam room, then tells me the ‘doctor’ will be in shortly. So far so good.

I sit down as directed and wait.

Then I wait, and wait, and wait some more.

This is BULLSHIT because, not only is the doctor late, I’m stuck in this crummy, dreary 5 X 5 room with nothing more to read than National Geographic’s from the 1970’s.

Rule #1: All medical offices should be required by the law of etiquette to provide current reading material…or be on fucking time!

Thirty minutes later he walks in with my chart in his hands.

“Good morning Mrs. Brown,” he says.

Well, YE-FUCKIN’-HAW, I think to myself.

My time is apparently not as important as his time.

We’ll see about that!

“Mrs. Brown?” he says again.

I decide to ignore him and continue reading about why Orangutans asses are  so red because we should all know the answer to this age-old question.

He clears his throat several times trying to get my attention.

“I should be done here in about 27 minutes.” I say checking my watch. “Why don’t you just have a seat doc. I’ll be right with you.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late. I had an emergency,” he says.

Yeah. I can see the emergency because he forgot to wipe the fucking cream cheese off the side of his face…asshole!

I finally acquiesce and put the magazine down.

“So. What is it you’re doing when your hip and back crack?” he asks.

I unbutton my pants and lower my zipper a few inches…

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

“Hey…you asked me what I was doing when my hip cracked, right? Just give me a second,” I say defending my actions.

“Wait just a damned a minute, let me get a nurse in here,” he says, his face turning a gentle shade of red. He slams his hand onto the button next to the door. Without missing a beat, he slides along the wall until he reaches the box of latex gloves, grabs a couple, retreats back to his spot by the door, then quickly dons said gloves.

I do not share with him that I’m only unbuttoning my pants because I’ve got one of those rip roaring errant gas bubble’s jetting around in my gut. You know the kind. It the one that settles right at the waistband of your pants and you need to relieve the pressure by any means possible or else that suckers gonna blow right then and there. It’s probably because I got up too early, drank far too much coffee that morning, and the shit, shower, and shave was not a fate-accomplis.

Regardless…I wait for his partner in crime.

I have to say though, I’m a little creeped out that he thinks I’d go there’ with him!


If I was going for that, I’d have chosen a much younger and better looking doctor. Perhaps even one that was more gynecologically adept.  Maybe even someone who had a little Chippendales experience under his belt.

This guy…NOT SO MUCH!


A few minutes later…enter Nurse Ratchet.


This nurse is like a wall sized condom.  Talk about your protective barrier! Sheeesh! This gal’s ankles have to be at least a size 22, and by the size of her bicep’s, it’s pretty apparent that she’s a definite gym rat.

She looks at me then back at the doctor.

“Where were we Mrs. Brown?” he says as though the formality of calling me ‘Mrs. Brown’ somehow protects him now that Nurse Ratchet’s standing between the two of us.

He’s still standing completely across the room though and he doesn’t look like he’s going to come any closer.

I’m thinking to myself this guys a real chicken shit. He’s a “doctor” for God’s sake. He must see all kinds of crazy stuff.

“So, when I twist like this…” I say rotating my hip. This of course makes my zipper undo a little more.

There’s no response. Nothing. Nada. Not even an ahem!

“Didn’t you hear that?” I ask.

“Hear what?” he says.

“My hip,” I say.

What?  This guy’s so fucking afraid I’m going to drop my pants or something that he’s completely forgotten why I’m here.

“Oh…No I didn’t hear it,” he says looking down at the floor.

“Well, maybe you should come a little closer, maybe put your hand right here so you can feel my crack.” I say.

“Um,” dribbles from his mouth as his face changes to a brighter shade of red as the words ‘feel my crack’ sinks in.

“DOCTOR, hellooooo…” I say, hoping to rein him back down from wherever his mind has drifted.

I glance at his groin just to make certain his pleasure center is still officially shut down.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” he says.

But he still doesn’t move.

Finally, Nurse Ratchet steps up to the plate for him and shuffles towards me. She pulls my pants down a little then puts her hand near my groin.


This woman should have ‘Ice Queen’ written on her name tag instead of…What? This does not look like a Cindy.

Now, I know there’s no rules about this, but there should be.

RULE #2: Medical practitioners should be required to warm up their hands or anything else that’s going to come in contact with your body!

“Okay, do it again, NOW,” she says. “I’ll feel your crack for him.”

I feel a little uncomfortable with the location of her hand, especially after noticing that she’s not wear a wedding band. And it’s no consellation when I spot the bad-ass tattoo peeking out of her short sleeved uniform.

“Actually, if you put your hand on my back, you’ll probably feel it better,” I manage to spit out as I continue to adjust to the temperature of her paw.

“Are you telling me how to do my job, ma’am?”


She doesn’t know me well enough yet to pull the ‘maam’ card.

I bite my tongue a little because I’m trying desperately to force the words in my head to stay there until she removes her hand.

Instead, I twist my body a little forcing the cracking of my bones to be noticeable.

“Did you feel it?” I ask hopeful that she will now remove the thawed paw.

“No,” she says.

She tells me to turn around so she can check me out from the back. I oblige.

She pulls my pants down a little and pushed my shirt up out of the way.

“Mmm!” she mumbles.

“I know,” I say. It’s obvious she thinks we’re soul sister now that she’s spotted my tattoo, my tramp stamp.

“Interesting choice,” she says as she runs her fingers down my spine towards ground zero. Interestingly enough though, her touch has become just slightly softer, as though she feels closer to me.

“Is that Canadian bacon?” she asks with a certain amount of perplexity in her voice.

“Indeed it is! I had it done many years ago after several shots of tequila. It was funny at the time but now…well, now it’s become permanent back fat, a tribute to my heritage,” I tell her. “My muffin top loves the company though.”

“Doctor, you should come and look,” she says, which causes my sphincter muscle to clamp down involuntarily.

“Why do you want him to see that?” I plead.

“I want him to see your back ma’am, not your unfortunate tattoo,” she says with a slight tone of indignation in her voice.


I know what she’s up to. This whole experience is quickly going to hell in a basket. I begin to rethink my position, that maybe I should just zip up and skidaddle, when I hear her say, ‘right there doc’!





Menopausal Moodiness…

…I don’t fucking think so.


Did I say that out loud? MY BAD!

I think women across the nation, hell, across the world, have been badgered into believing this by our husbands, children, bosses, enemies, and we certainly can’t leave out the pharmaceutical companies, right?

Hell…without us hormonally imbalanced women, imagine what would happen to their profit margin.

Can’t they just face the fact that sometimes we just wake up plain old bitchy on occasion?

The fact is, we have our good days, and we have our bad days!


Some of the bad days get handed to us on a fucking silver platter, right?

It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that everyone in your house:

1. leaves every cupboard they open open

2. leaves the fridge door open just a crack so that everything is pre-warmed before cooking

3. leaves their clothes wherever they happen to land because they know the laundry fairy will be by soon (and by-God they know she comes every day)

4. leaves their bed unmade

5. leaves their dirty dishes wherever they’ve recently eaten

6. leaves the milk out after breakfast so that when you finally take a minute for yourself to have that refreshing afternoon cup of tea–it dribbles out in clumps.


It couldn’t possibly be that, when the hubby looks at you with those puppy dog eyes because he’s got a boner that needs some attention, you’ve got to somehow conjure up enough energy just so you can shake your head NO because you still have to finish everything on their mommy/honey-do lists!

It couldn’t possibly be that we have to somehow fit our ‘outside life’ into our ‘inside life’ like it’s no big deal? Like we can do our eight hours at work, then do another eight at home just to catch up?


Some days I have to attend a meeting at my local Bitches Anonymous just to blow off steam so I won’t take the law into my own hands! (These meetings are usually standing room only by the way!) Actually, I hate going to these meetings because they’re such bitches it doesn’t leave me much room to shine!

But I digress…

Every once in a while you have that SPECIAL, MAGICAL day you’re always dreaming of.

You know, the one that:

A. doesn’t include a single hot-flash where you can steam vegetable just by pressing them up against your skin.

B. doesn’t include pee escaping your vaginal canal unexpectedly ruining your God-given right to sit without having to cross your legs to hide the shameful fact that you’ve lost control of your vaginal muscles.

C. Your hair somehow becomes manageable leaving you looking less Medusa like.

…or for once…

D. Clothes that don’t try to take you out at the waist by strangling you or causing that gas bubble to erupt at the most inopportune time.

We live for those days, right girls?

…to be continued!

Marriage can…

…take a bite out of your freedom that’s for damn sure. But I like it.

I’ve been in the business for more than thirty years so I guess it’s safe to say, it kinda suits me to a ‘T’.

I find great comfort in knowing that, when I walk back into my house at the end of the day, there’s more than just the dog there waiting to stick his wet muzzle up into my butt crack just so he can relay his feelings of:

‘Mommy, you’re home, I missed you! Where the hell have you been all day? Can I have a treat? Where’s my dinner? Rub my belly! Can we go for a walk?’

Not that a simple kiss on the cheek wouldn’t do the same thing.

It may seem like a cheap thrill, and it is, but I’m easy. I’ll take them whenever I can! Time passes too quickly and cheap thrills don’t arrive on your doorstep all that often!

My theory is ‘when opportunity knocks, open the freakin’ door’!

Yes, this is my dogs favorite thing to do. On a good day he’ll nudge me this way from the front door all the way into the kitchen.

Don’t get me wrong here. I appreciate the fact that he likes my ass just as much as the hubby does.

Now, whether it’s that his nose is itchy, as it always is, or whether this is truly a sign of love, I don’t mind so much because I know he needs me, he cherishes our time together, and he can’t stand it when I’m gone too long.

Again, this is where the hubby and dog are similar!

Hubby also likes to push his nose into the crack of my butt, misses me when I’m gone, wants a snack, wonders where dinner is, loves to have his belly rubbed, then wants me to walk around the block with him.

Only difference here is that I don’t have to carry a crap bag, nor do I have to wipe the drool off…

Oh…wait…that’s wrong because sometimes I do. Sigh!

Yes, this is where two great minds think alike!

Over the years, I’ve come to the understanding that husbands are a lot like dogs. Their bark is usually worse than their bite. It’s usually only a slight flesh wound if they do in fact decide to take a chomp out of you, because guess what? They’re not going to do anything that would  jeopardize their their butt-sniffing privileges.

They can be:







…as well as a plethora of other emotions.

Husbands master the art of ‘puppy dog eyes’ better than some dogs sometimes, especially when it comes to sex.

They’ll gladly roll over so you can rub their bellies and whatever else is in the region. Usually this is where the wagging tail comes in.

If you use your wiley womanly ways in just the right way they’re also easily trainable. You can bet your bottom dollar on that!

You throw them a bone and you can be damn sure they’re going to sit up and beg until that bone is secured tightly in their teeth. Or in hubby’s case, until the boner…I mean bone… is securely in your teeth!

Mornings are especially interesting at my house. We have this routine you see.  It’s not always exactly the same but for the most part it’s our thing. It’s been happening for years and years.

I get up in the middle of the night in order to have some peaceful quite writing time. This is what I tell myself anyway, but of course I know the truth. It all boils down to menopausal instability, which includes those fantastic hot flashes, the inability to turn my brain off, and the sudden penchant for undisturbed housecleaning.

It’s exactly the time when I think of all the things I don’t want to think about.

If I slept longer than three a.m. I’d have to do a pulse check. I’ve made peace with this over the years because I don’t have a choice. It’s really not so bad, except that I can no longer stay up later than nine p.m. Some say this makes me boring.

I say to those people–Fuck Off!

In the middle of the night the world is peaceful.

The kids are snug in their beds. (Or on the couch, or curled up on a chair…)

The dog’s rolled over on his back on the couch in the den, his legs moving as thought he’s chasing someone or something, and hubby, well, he’s also laying on his back, lost in dreams with a big old smile on his face. Obviously he’s dreaming about me!

The best part of the early morning for me happens after the coffee’s brewed. I’ve got my electric blanket cranked to high. It always seems to be cold in my office so my son thought this would be a brilliant Christmas gift a year ago. What a thoughtful boy. I love it, I use it, and it serves its purpose wonderfully. I’ve discovered however, that if you sit on electric blanket long enough, you’ll actually put your vagina to sleep.

First time that happened I thought my horny had finally emerged, but upon standing, it was soon apparent that there was no feeling whatsoever, nada, nothing. Not even that pins and needles sensation. I tried touching it once just to make sure it was still there, and even that gave me no sensation. I no longer sit on the blanket. This is not a cheap thrill moment!

I have enough trouble pumping that sucker up to the point where it wants to see a little action, so putting it to sleep is the last thing in the world I’d do on purpose!

So, somewhere around seven in the morning I hear this warbled voice barreling down the staircase. It’s a cry for coffee. Yes, I’m a sucker (or maybe I’m the well-trained puppy). I stop what I’m doing and go to make his morning java.

So here comes the habit thing…

As I go up the stairs, I either hear the TV or I don’t.

If I hear it, that means that there’ll be no booty call. If I don’t hear it…well…that’s a whole different ball game.

That signifies it’s game on.

If this is the case, then I must decide on whether or not there will be a random grab from my underwear drawer.

Oh! To lingerie or not to lingerie, that is the question!

This is always a stab in the dark, especially if this occurs before the sun’s up. I keep my panties and bra’s in the same drawer. If you’ve ever made the mistake of trying to put a bra on in place of your underwear, well, ‘Ms Gina’ will end up looking a little like an Eskimo girl, sporting an Afro and lovely, lacy earmuffs. It doesn’t happen often, but it has.

Losing momentum sucks, right?

I guess at this point in our lives we have to seize the moment at every given moment!

That’s hubby’s theory.  Actually now that I think about it, he’s always ready, willing, and able.

But, it has to be quick. I’ve got two kids to get out the door so speed is important.

This is where all those Evelyne Wood Speed classes I took years ago come in handy.

to be continued…