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!”

Dear Ms. Le. Bido…

…I know you’ve had a lot on your mind over the years but I wanted you to know that I miss you terribly.

O M F’ing G do I miss you!

Oh and yes, if you’re wondering, Mr. Dick Wad misses you as well!

I know that for a long time you’ve been down in the dumps and tossed around like a cheap salad because I’ve been so busy with my life, but I just don’t understand why you’re not responding to any of my e-mails or calls?

I don’t remember abusing you or misusing you in any way so I just don’t get it!

I’ve been searching for you non-stop these past few years.

I’ve looked under the couch hoping maybe you’d somehow accidentally slipped out that night I had one to many tequila’s and slept with my legs askew. That would have been an easy fix since I could have just slipped you back inside and no one would have been the wiser.

But no, you were nowhere to be found!

I’ve looked in the back of my closet and inside all my boots thinking maybe you felt you needed a break and quietly slid down my leg that day I had to stand in line at Costco.

I have a vague memory of a horrible itch that day. I seem to recall it was really hot and my panties were making me uncomfortable, but it would have been too embarrassing to scratch ‘down there’ in public. I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable , so again I apologize if you felt neglected.

I’ve searched and searched endlessly!

Hell, I’ve even scoured my underwear drawer several times hoping that perhaps you just got stuck on one of my thongs but my search proved fruitless. You have simply vanished.

I recently put up posters hoping that someone would recognize you and bring you home safe and sound, but apparently posting pictures of our atrophied ‘Ms. Gina’ is against the law here.

I found this out the hard way after two uniformed officers showed up at my house informing me that in order for me to continue putting up these posters I would have to add a pair of underwear to the picture to cover Ms. Gina and I wasn’t sure, since you’ve been gone so long, which underwear you would recognize.

It’s been a tough road without you, and although it’s far more work these days to get my mojo on, I persevere.

I’m still holding out hope that one of these days we’ll cross paths again.

Until we meet again,



Dear Mom,

Whaa, whaa, whaa!

Here’s the deal. You’re very needy. I had to make a stand. My biggest beef is that I felt over worked.

Sex, sex, and more sex! Whoo Hoo for you!

Jesus Christ!

You never gave me a break so I did what I had to do. I slipped out the back door during one of your, ahem, midnight silent killers.

I knew this would be the only way I could make a clean exit. Well actually, I guess it wasn’t exactly clean in that sense, but your hubby was so busy trying to get the pillow over his head I knew you wouldn’t even notice my abscence.

Just to let you know, I plan on coming back some day, but it’s not going to happen any time soon. I NEED MORE TIME. You’ve worked me hard for the last 35 years or so, I think I deserve some time off for good behavior.

I know you’ve been trying to lure me back and I’m appalled at the depths to which you can sink.

That Horney Goat Weed shit was child’s play. You actually thought you could drug me into returning?

By the way I’m currently in rehab THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

You’re such a fool.

If you were serious about trying to get me back you might want to step on the treadmill once in a while. I hear exercise really helps.

And while we’re on the subject, perhaps you’ll consider one less shot of tequila at night. This fucks with your brain as well as mine.

These are not threats but, I want you to take me seriously!

I know what you said to Thing One and Two and you just don’t scare me anymore.  One and Two still speak to me and they agree with the exercise thing.

Your’s truly,

Ms. Le. Bido


Dearest Bashing Bido,

You suck!

Please do not rush back for my sake…bitch!

You should know better than to bite the hand that feeds you!

You know who.

Sexy Gray Hair…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you see that?” I asked her.

“See what?” she says.

“That,” I said.

“What,” she asked.

“That hair,” I said.

“Oh it’s lovely dear,” she said.

“What’s lovely about it?” I asked.

“It looks good on you,” she replied.

“How does that look good?” I queried.

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

“What…are you blind?” I said.

Dead silence…

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

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

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


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

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

There it was!


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

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

I had my first Brazillion later that day!

Does This Make…

…my ass/gut/back/neck/face/thigh/calves/ankles look fat?  We’ve probably all been guilty of asking this stupid ass question once or twice. What possess’ us to ask it in the first place is beyond me because, point in fact, there is ONLY ONE ANSWER we want to hear–NO, NO, and NO! Any other answer could lead to, let’s just say–a good bit of damage control from the questionee.

There can be so many repercussions to this answer.

Of course this also explains why my husband never wants to shop with me I guess. Maybe he’s smarter than I think. The second he hears the words ‘does this make’…he’s up and out of the room faster than a Daytona race car. God bless him! That man has a survival instinct like no one else I know.

The first thing they teach you in school, if you can remember that far back is…

if you already know the answer, don’t ask the question’

…unless of course you really want to put someone in the hot seat. If you, after giving this some thought, still ask the question–well–you’re dumber than you look!

We’re not complete idiots about our body image. We know when all of the above looks good or not. We have mirrors! We can see as plain as day when our boobs have fluctuated in size and our cups runneth over, or the dry cleaners have shrunk our pants (AGAIN)!

At this age, most of us are in denial about what’s happening to our, for lack of a better word, flesh host. Yes, sometimes we put the blinders on for self-preservation, but we know. We feel “IT” move when we walk. This is why I don’t run anymore. I do not want my back-fat or ass gyrating and screaming “look at me–whoo-hoo” in public places. I figure the slower I move the better I can hide it.

I think the first inkling that change is upon us is when you start to lose those little hollows in your cheeks. You know exactly what I’m talking about. It that thing that makes your face look like you have those glorious cheek bones and can often make you appear thinner than you really are. It’s flattering and it’s youthful. Unfortunately, when the tides of youth start slipping into middle age things tend to get lost or buried in the shuffle. That’s right!  When that hollow fills, it means that extra weight is secretly being added while you sleep. (This has nothing at all to do with the second helping of cheesecake, or the loaf of bread you ate with last nights dinner.)

This is not good because it also means that jowls are right around the corner. Yeah! It seems cruel that the face is usually the first place this shows. I’ll admit, both my dimples have become buried amid the debris of the passing years. Well actually, the truth is, I just noticed that they’re not really gone, they just relocated to my ass. Traitors!

A lot of people judge what’s going on with their body by how their clothes fit. This I believe is a really good way to judge your GIRTH because, if they still fit you, it’s a win-win situation. No gain, no pain!  This falls under the category of reverse-reverse psychology. Think of all the money you’ll save not having to shop for skinny clothes or larger (fat) clothes.

I’ve learned my lesson over the years as my weight fluctuated up and down. I’ve come to the conclusion that after twenty-three years of yo-yo dieting, trainers, boot camps, and starvation, I am never going to lose my baby (pregnancy) fat. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I can actually use that term anymore when it comes to those little pudgy spots. The truth of the matter is that this is plain and simple fat-fat now. Yep. This is finally the time in our lives when we have to suck up and admit to ourself that our MILF (Mother I’d Like To F@#k) days are a thing of the past. CRAP!

I threw my scale out a long time ago because it always betrayed me. I’d strip down to nothing, stand on its hard cold surface, and the little hands would just start spinning out of control as it determined how much it was going to punish me. Well I’ll bet it really spun out of control as it descended towards the cold hard pavement after I threw it out the second story bathroom window. Bastard!

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not hideous, BUT, everything is relative isn’t it? When your waist expands it becomes more relative with your hips and your rib cage, as in–if they’re the same size, you actually can no longer refer to it as your waist. It is now considered part of your torso, or as I like to call it my boy shape, my masculine side. This isn’t always a bad thing because if you happen to have a little more junk in the trunk it will no longer stand out on its own. There will be no references to pears or any other fruit. This can be a good thing.

What I wonder is why don’t men ask this question? I mean, mid-life does the same thing to them so why do they remain silent? How are they able to maintain their calm, cool, and collected demeanor when their belly crosses the border before they do? What is their secret? Could it be that age changes us in different ways? Do they lose their peripheral vision first? Do they see only what they want to see? Or are they simply perfectionists at tom-foolery?

Maybe we should just rip that page out of their book and stick it in ours!

Oh well, I have to run. I just heard the timer go off. I think my chocolate cake is done!