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!


Sexual Napalm…

…is the latest catch phrase according to a new report.

Leave it to the Gen-X crowd to come up with that one. Obviously they have yet to be medicated, and secondly, they haven’t got a fucking clue about life yet.

Guys revealing their inner most desires when it comes to what turns them on is nothing new. Selfish bastards!

They say they like girls who go down on them because that doesn’t happen that often…

Excuse me while I puke?


I call Bullshit on this one! Just ask the Hubby!

In my limited experience with dating, the first thing out of a guys mouth was definitely not my ‘gina’.

Maybe I missed the class in semaphore they offered in high school that said go here not there!

Another biggie that came to ‘light’ in this report is that guys like girls who like having sex with the lights on. Some said they’d like to do it under a spot light so they could see every inch of whom they were about to do.



Not only would this make me uncomfortable, I don’t know that I could suck my stomach in that long. My biggest complaint is that this ‘revelation time’ could add an extra hour to what should take under ten minutes.

Romantic Interlude under the SPOTLIGHT:

Me: “Are you done yet?”

Him: “I think you’re going to have to roll over one more time, I think I missed a spot. Can you move the light closer?”

I begrudgingly move the freaking light.

Me: “Why is this taking so long, are you fucking blind?”

Him: “I didn’t know it was going to take this long, okay?”

Me:“What are you saying?”

Him: “Ah…absolutely nothing!”

I begrudgingly roll over.


Me: “What?”

Him: “Nothing!”

Me: “Then what was the hmmmm for?”

Him: “Do you want to walk in the morning?”

Me: “WHAT?……Why do you ask?”

Him: “I don’t know, just thought we could use some exercise.”

Me: “Bastard!”

Him: “What, I’m just sayin…”

Me: “I’ve got a suggestion too! Why don’t you just roll  yourself over and get some sleep.”

Him: “But?”

Me: “Nite, nite!”

Spotlight…my ass!

If hubby had to take that extra time to scan every part of me we’d probably end up not having sex.  With two kids still living at home our time’s limited to stolen moments so there will never be a spotlight in the bedroom. Besides that, I don’t want to always wonder whether this is another one of those obviously un-obvious fat checks?

At this juncture of my life the words ‘sexual napalm’ bring to mind my ever constant problem…my mid-life gas tank.

Now there’s sexual napalm I can relate to.

I’ve learned over the years to keep a spare pack of GasX in my bedside table in case I see that glint in hubby’s eyes. There’s a lot of things we let slide in our long time marriage but the passing of gas during a romantic interlude is not something we can let go. There has to be rules and this falls into the top ten.

This theory has been tested here and there, when on rare occasion we’d pull out ‘the book’ and try on a few Karma Sutra positions. Most of the time I’d just stare at the pictures completely dumbfounded. I’d sit there wondering whether, if even in my twenties I could ever accomplish some of these positions!

This is where you double up on the GasX!

I know last time we tried one of those convoluted twisted up, twirling, crazy ass positions it wasn’t exactly what I’d  call fun. Shortly after the paramedics left claiming that our dilemma did not constitute what they’d call an actual emergency…I put that book away.

If I want to look that ridiculous I’ll just dust off our Twister game so everyone can laugh their ass off!

I’ll tell you what sexual napalm is.

It’s when your guy takes out the garbage without you having to ask ten times. It’s when they don’t drop their clothes on the floor in their normal heap because they know you’ll go into  maid mode as soon as you get out of bed. It’s when they look at you ‘that’ way without you wondering if there’s something wrong with your hair/makeup/clothes/size. It’s when they see that little bit of cottage cheese hanging down at the bottom of your butt but they hold their tongue. It’s when they hold your hand when you least expect it. It’s when……………

Part 2…(Libido boosters)


“Libido Steel…make you…” he finishes by gesturing with his groin moving in that humping motion.

Holy crap. This guy suddenly looks like he’s ready to go right then and there. I immediately scan his crotch in search of a spontaneous boner, my bad,  but it’s as flat as a pancake.

“You’re sure I’m gonna wanna…” I finish by gesturing the same humping motion because, at this point, I figure I’ve got nothing to lose here.

His eyebrows go up and down as though he’s trying to dislodge something from his forehead and he grins at me.  He sets the bottle into my sweaty palm and I wrap my fingers around it like it’s some kind of treasure.

But wait, out of the corner of my eye I see his other hand reaching towards my right breast.


Did this mean I still had it? Did he get all worked up by my push, push, groin thrust? Was I hot to him? Were my girls turning him on?


I instantly react with the speed of a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun. I intercept his approaching paw with my best jiu-jitsu move and my do-jo cry–Keyah. I give him the evil eye!

He steps back and rubs his wrist. As close as we’re standing I can see a red welt rise where I’d just smacked him.

He stands there in complete shock, complete disbelief! His eyes fill with fear.

He takes two more steps back from me then raises his shaking hand and points at my right breast.

I look down and see there is a rather large ball of white thread sticking to my black sweater. It probably came loose from the coat I’d been wearing earlier.

“You got shit on your shirt lady,” he says in his defense.

“OMG…I’m so sorry!” I say as I pull the straggler off and toss it to the ground.

“Maybe you need hormone too bitch…help brain relax,” he says making his move towards the cash register.

I’m thinking this guy must be fucking telepathic because I had run out of estrogen. I’d been out of it, and out of my mind, for nearly a week because I’d forgotten to order it.

I try to hand him my credit card.

“No lady, you set card on counter, I pick up myself.”

I try to gather what’s left of my brain and defend my action but the second I try to speak his shushes me.

“You pay me, get out,” he hisses at me.  “You no come back.”

He rips my card a new asshole through his machine and tosses it back on the counter, then sets the sales slip down so I can sign it. As I reach for the pen he steps back as though he knows what my arm span is.

“Can I have a bag?”


“Okie dokey then.”

I hang my head in embarrassment and do as I’m told. As I head towards my car I can feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. I know he’s watching through the slats of the window blinds to make sure I’m really leaving and I’m pretty sure I hear the clank of a lock being engaged.

But then I thought to myself, who cares, I’m about to get my horny on. I’m about to get my mojo back. I’m going to be that sex machine I once was. The boner goddess. The MILF! I may actually find that spontaneous orgasm. Whehaw!!!!!

I get in my car and nearly have to pry my fingers off the bottle so I can read the label.

I look at the main ingredient and burst out laughing.

‘Horny Goat Weed.’

It’s then I realize I probably could have just as easily gone to the local feed store to get this shit.

No one’s home when I get there so I crack the bottle, tip it towards the light so I can inspect the pills inside.


Was I supposed to swallow these things or were the suppositories? I have panic attacks when I have to take those little Advil tablets, how was I possibly going to manage these? I look at the label and read the instructions.

Take one daily for maintenance and up to four two hours before sexual activity. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my brow.

OMG! Now I was going to have to get anxiety medicine just to be able to swallow these suckers.

But I was on a mission. I’d just have to bite the bullet, literally, and down these horny goat weed suckers any way I could.

Flash forward one week.

I wasn’t feeling the sex thing yet but one thing I did notice immediately was that whenever I was driving, my attention kept wandering towards the long tall grass that runs parallel to the freeway. I’d start to feel hunger pangs followed shortly thereafter by the urge to pull over and graze.

I even started noticing barn yard animals in the most odd places. In Los Angeles proper it’s pretty rare to see anything other than a cat or dog.

I found myself wanting to visit a friend of mine’s ranch up in the Santa Monica mountains because I’d recently attended a woman’s horse retreat there and had a vague recollection of a very handsome billy goat wandering about.

I started answering questions and responding to statements in an odd way.

My son came bursting through the door after school one day so he could tell me a joke he’d heard that day. It was one of those really sick jokes if you know what I mean.

All I could say was “Eweeeeeeeeee,” followed shortly by a few “Bah, bah, bah’s” as his warped humor wrapped around my brain.

I’d catch myself late at night staring down at my front lawn from my bedroom balcony.

I ordered every version of “Grazin In The Grass Is A Gas” from iTunes.

One day my husband came home and I was laying face down in the tall cool green grass.

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

“Mowing the lawn,” I said.

“Why is your hand down your pants?”

“I got an itch.” I respond.

What? Wait a minute!

Maybe it was starting to happen. Maybe it wasn’t just an itch. Maybe, just maybe, my vagina was finally getting the message.


I looked up at him staring down at me and cocked my eyebrow.

“Kids aren’t home yet. Would you like to step into my office?”

Oh yes, the world we live in, the world I live in, is a far better place when we can chemically alter it!

Part 1…Libido boosters…

…have become big business these days. So many people I know have had to resort to them in order to maintain any kind of sex life.

Where the hell have all the lost libido’s gone I wonder? Where was mine?  Was it lost in the same vacuum as all those missing socks I’ve failed to locate after dong laundry?

Did it fall out that day I wore granny panties instead of my thong? If that’s the case, I should have known better, I knew the elastic was loose.

Or did it escape when they ripped out my innards to protect me from the blob that had taken over my uterus back in my forties?

Could it have snuck out while I was sleeping one night when my legs spread haphazardly in the nine o’clock/three o’clock position hoping for one of those rare, did I say rare, I think I said rare, spontaneous orgasm.

There’s also a very good possibility that I lost it somewhere between packing lunches, running to the dry cleaners, washing, drying, and folding endless loads of laundry, dropping the kids off wherever then picking them up later, homeschooling my son, (kill me now) paying the bills, waxing the floors, dusting the furniture, washing the windows, dragging the garbage cans to the curb, negotiating with the plumber or electrician or the Roto Rooter man, cooking dinner, grocery shopping, bathing the dog, and whatever else needs to be tended to nearly every single day.

Mmmmmmm…………. Maybe it wasn’t just my libido I lost…maybe it was my entire mind that went AWOL.

Maybe, just maybe, when I find all my missing socks I’ll find my mojo again, but until that day arrives, I’ll be on the search for the magic bullet .

We women know very well that menopause does strange things to our bodies, and even stranger things to our minds. We look at ourselves in the mirror and are often surprised to see that erosion is no longer just a term reserved solely for soil. All those perky parts that used to be up there have gone south and are not expected to return home any time soon.

Your nipples, well, I have a vague memory of how proud they used to make me during the winter, you know, sweater weather. They could make a grown man stop dead in his tracks. Now…they sort of point towards the ground as though they’re weighted down with magnets and are constantly on the lookout for missing coins.

What used to be my neat little waistline, well…hell that thing now looks like a scrap yard filled with heaps of old worn out dented parts waiting to be crushed and hauled off. I never knew you could acutally grow cellulite on a belly but I was wrong. I was very wrong. My favorite trick with this newfound flesh is to squish together all the fat around my belly button to replicate the perfect bagel.

The lack of hormones, lack of energy, lack of time, lack of desire, all move us constantly towards that ‘not tonight honey I’ve got a headache’ syndrome. In some cases it’s even more drastic, it’s more like ‘touch me and pull back a bloody stub’. Worse yet, you can voice the words ‘touch me and die’ with a single glance at your partner.

Yeah, the lost libido syndrome echo’s across the nation like a sonic boom and you know who’s listening to these calls for help–the pharmaceutical companies—that’s who. They’re very aware of the need to put the zip back in your atrophying vagina before it closes shop permanantly. They know they’ve got you by the balls so to speak. So what do they do, they charge you a freaking arm and a leg for their products because they know that if mama ain’t happy, nobodies happy.

Yep, this craps expensive and because it doesn’t work like Erectile Dysfunction meds, which has an immediate impact, you have to take it long term.

I recently had coffee with my angel and his wife. We talked about all the normal things we usually talk about but then the conversation turned to his prostrate cancer. Now, this in itself is not funny at all, but his description on how his penis works now that his prostate has been removed cracked me up. Not only did he have to take Viagra to get a boner, he had to give himself a shot right in his wiener.

Holy crap!

When those words left his lips I felt my vagina shrivel up into a fetal position trying to protect itself.

Let’s put it this way, if somebody told me I had to stick a needle in my vagina to achieve an orgasm, I’d likely die an old non-orgasmic spinster.

Our conversation had to be diverted at that point so I asked his wife how her libido was. I figured she was a safe bet to ascertain a little info on this subject because she’s a little older than me. She told me that she had struggled with it over the years, having gone through menopause already, but she’d recently discovered a fantastic product that boosted her libido.

It was a combination of Chinese herbs that turned it around for her. She swore by them and told me I should get some for myself.  I hate trying new things, especially when it comes to pills of any kind, but I was desperate. I sucked back the rest of my coffee, excused myself, then rushed off to the herbalist’s store.

Now if I’d been looking for say, something for a cough, or something to make me sleep, I would not have hesitated to ask for help locating this particular product, but because it would be an admission of my inadequate sex drive I cruised up and down the aisles scanning bottle after bottle for what seemed like hours. I couldn’t find it.


I slunk up to the counter, and of course it was some young Chinese boy standing there, and I had to ask him to point out the libido booster section.

“Oh yes…libido…” he said looking me up and down.

“Mmmmm…” was about the only confirmation I could respond with.

“Libido broke?” he said in a half-question, half-statement tone.

“No, no, I just lost it somewhere between my forties and fifties.”

…to be continued!

Mating Season…

…happens in the early spring most of the time.

You got the birds and the bees doing it, the dogs and cats, as  well as a large population of various domestic and wild  animals. It’s such a natural phenomena that it usually passes  unnoticed, with the exception of those pain in the ass cats  who howl and scream at each other in the wee hours of the  night  demanding submission from their partner.

I’ll tell you this much, if someone screamed at me that way the  last thing they’d be getting is sex! I’d clamp my legs together  so tight it’d take a crew with crowbars to separate them. As a  matter of fact, I’d be off and running ‘cause if they scream at  you before sex, God only knows what’s going to happen later  on down the road.

These are signs that must not be ignored poeple.

I’ve discovered that Los Angeles has a human mating season that runs year round, but it doesn’t take place in the bedroom—it’s takes place on the surface streets, parking lots and wherever else people and cars can mix.

Here in LA there’s millions of cars on the road at any given time of the day. Even in the wee hours of the morning you can see the stream of headlights moving along the freeway like a trail of lava. Where  everybody’s going at that time is anybodies guess. Maybe they’re going to work or coming home from work, out partying or just flat out wasting gas because they’re bored, but there out they’re morning, noon, and night.

By my estimates about 10% of these road warriors are seniors, 75% are the money-makers—you know—us—the baby boomers, the shakers and the movers, and last but not least are the 15% who fall into the teenagers/young adult group.

This last group of course is the most worrisome. Not that we don’t have to worry about some of those seniors out there who have trouble discerning which is the gas peddle and which is the brake, or the baby boomer whose financial empire is about to fail and they’ve got six tons of metal and chrome to vent with.

My concern is the teen/young adult group. They’re so technologically user friendly, it’s rare to see one of them driving without a phone clamped in the palms of their hands as they try to talk/text/photograph whomever or whatever strikes their fancy while travelling at high speed. From my experience this usually always takes place right next to my car. And, oh, by the way, if you DON’T see the phone in their hands you should be especially careful because that means they may have dropped it on the floor and will likely start swerving about in order to retrieve this precious communication system.

What worries me even more is that they also seem to be searching for love on the road. I’ve seen it first hand, this banter that goes on between drivers who happen to catch each other’s eyes.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for looking for love—but while you is driving? Come on people, this does not seem to me when you should be doing anything but keeping your eyes on the road with your hands placed precisely at the ten o’clock/two o’clock position on the steering wheel.

I guess this shouldn’t surprise me that much since the world has become this big pulsing beat that is so fast paced, if you don’t have a hold of the knot at the end of the rope, well, you’re in big trouble. You’ll be so left behind your kids will wander around aimlessly with that world famous question—Where’s Mommy?

Of course Dad, whose kept pace with technology all along as it progressed, will then in turn have to tell them that Mom missed the boat. She’s lost somewhere between the 80’s and the 90’s. He’ll then explain that she picked up the computer far too late, she can’t do anything with her blackberry except make and receive calls, and once you tell her East or West instead of left or right there’s a good possibility she may never be seen again.

Hell, this world’s so fast and easy you don’t even have to get out of your car at Starbucks any more. Yep, you can just drive through and never waste one precious moment of freeway time.  They all cruise around the building at a snails pace, but the very second that cup is in their hands they peel out of there like their pants are on fire. Yes, we Angelian’s love the coffee God!

Anyway, I got caught up in one of these mating sessions the other day after I dropped my son off at school. There I was, just sitting there, minding my own business when this young girl pulled up next to me. She stopped just slightly ahead of me but I could see her perfectly through the back passenger door window. I guessed her to be somewhere in her late teens/early twenties. She’s got her hair tied up in a knot of some kind on the top of her head. I recognize this knot because my daughter wears this same style. I’ve named it the Sumo Roll for obvious reasons. Okay, so this girl is probably cuter than I think but her face is covered under the biggest pair of sunglasses I’ve ever seen. I mean really, these things were so big you could barely make out any of her facial features.  They seem a little excessive size wise but maybe this is how she saves on sun block.

Her car, well, it’s not so much a car than it is pieces of metal screwed together, and it appears to have been, at one point, some shade of blue. My guess is she’s an avid driver/texter by the amount of damage I can see just on this side of the car. Oddly enough I also notice a small patch of grass hanging down from the bottom of what once was a shiny chrome bumper. What had replaced the factory authorized safety device now looked more like tin foil that had been used, scrunched up, and then recycled in the form of a bumper.  This crash I realize must be fairly recent since the grass is still showing signs of life and there’s a tiny sprinkler head peaking it’s head out of the patch and it’s still dripping water. What a lucky sod!

Now I’m curious about the interior of her car so I roll forward a little, just enough to snoop but not so obvious she’ll turn to look at me. The back seat is covered with piles of clothes, water bottles, empty coffee cups, empty cigarette packages, and a bunch of other things that I can’t actually recognize. This is what I’d call the typical teenage car. I know it like the back of my hand. I’ve got one just like it sitting in my driveway at home.

I notice that not only is she chewing gum, she’s also got a freshly lit cigarette hanging from her lips. Her fingers are flying across the keyboard of her phone at the speed of light for what seems like the worlds longest message composed on a phone. She sets the phone on the dashboard for a brief moment and removes the cigarette from between her lips. I see a pink bubble squish out through her lips and when it pops, there’s a small cloud of smoke that lingers in front of her. Holy crap!

I’m thinking that if there was ever an award for personal multi-tasking, this girl takes the cake.

On the other side of my car I see a brand new shiny white BMW pull up just slightly ahead of my car. This one is driven by a boy who looks twenty something as well. I watch as he looks at the girl across the one lane span. I see he is trying to get her attention so like any good voyeur I crack the windows on both sides of my car so I can hear them.

“Hey,” he calls out to her tapping his horn just a little to make sure he gets her attention.

It takes her a minute to respond. She turns the radio down and yells back “What’s up.”

“Wanna hang out?” he yells.

“No.” she says and rolls up the passenger side window.

Flash forward to the next light where we’re still aligned in the same way. I notice both her windows are down again.

He taps the horn in another attempt to get her attention then yells out his single greeting of ‘hey’.

She sees him again and turns the radio down.

“What?” she says.

“Can I call you?” he yells back as he waves his cell phone towards her.

She shakes her head no.

“Come on we’ll have fun, maybe we can go some hooka,” he says hoping this will entice her.

“Where do you live?” she responds.

“I live with my folks…er…I live in Hollywood.” he says trying to cover up his error.

She smiles the most beautiful smile at him showing off her perfect chicklet teeth then her window starts to roll up.

I look back at him and he’s got his hands up in the air as if to say WTF. He tries one last honk but the light changes. She flips him off even though she’s still got that big smile on her face then makes a left hand turn. He chucks his phone down on to the seat and speeds away.

So I’m thinking to myself, I wonder if this ever works.

About ten minutes later I pull up to another of the million lights I will get caught at on my way home. Sitting beside me is a kind of gruff looking young man. He looks to be around my daughters age. I decide to try out my own version of car mating just for the hell of it.

I roll down my window, tap my horn and wait for a response. Nothing! So this time I blast the horn. Well that gets his attention and he rolls down the window. His radio is so loud I have to shout.

“Hey you wanna hang out smoke some hooka?” I ask even though I’m wondering what I’ll actually do if he says okay.

“What?” he screams back at me seemingly annoyed.

“Wanna go smoke some hooka?” I yell back.

He looks at me, then looks out the drivers side window to make sure that I’m not talking to someone else, then turns back to me.

“No maam, I don’t. Jesus Christ aren’t you a little old for this?” he yells at me then shuts the window. Now he’s staring at me like I’m a complete idiot.

Cut me like a knife that little bastard did when the word ‘maam’ rolled out of his puckered lips.

But I persist. I wave my cell phone at him, make the ‘call me’ gesture with my hand, and wait for his response.

His window rolls down, I hold my breath.

“Get away from me lady,” he screams at me.

I ignore his protest and mouth the words ‘call me’ one last time.

The light changes, he stick his hand out the window, flips me off then speeds away leaving a little rubber behind to show his disgust that some old woman just hit on him.

So I rethink what went wrong. Maybe I have to try this with someone more my age. Someone who won’t be disrespectful.

I spot my next victim about two lights later and man this guys good looking. You know the type, suit, briefcase, bitchin car.

I roll up next to him and see his windows are down.

“Hey…wanna hang out, smoke some hooka?” I yell through the open window.

“Pardon me?” he says like he didn’t hear exactly what I said.

“Come on, let’s go smoke some hooka…” I yell back so there is no way he won’t hear me.

He looks over at me, shakes his head, rolls up his window, then goes back to watching the light. I tap the horn one last time but this time when he looks at me I’ve already got my hand in that telephone position, you know, thumb and pinky pressed to my ear and I yell out ‘call me’. He rolls his eyes and makes a dash out of there even though the light’s still red.

Oh well, I think to myself. It was a fun experiment. That’s when I hear the loud blast of a horn.

I glance over at the car that was next to good looking guy and see this old  Armenian man ogling me. Actually I can’t decifer if it’s a lear or an ogle, but either way, this guy looks like a piece of work. My guess would be he’s maybe seventy, seventy five. He’s actually waving a big red hooka pipe at me and nodding his head in the yes motion, all the while moving his bushy eyebrow up and down in that weird little come hither motion. I see he’s got a front tooth missing and he’s a little short in the hair area and I believe he’s wearing one of those blue plaid matching shirt and short sets, which means he’s probably also wearing white knee high socks.


I train my eyes back on the light praying it will change. I roll my window up to block out whatever he’s yelling at me because I can’t understand what he’s saying anyway as he spews out in his native language.

That right there was enough to put an end to my little experiment. As I headed towards home to hubby I felt eternally grateful that I didn’t actually have to pursue this ever again.

Hot sex…

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh honey….did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It’s beeping.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, well…so will this.”

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

Let’s be real hear.

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

Suppleness is…

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

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

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

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

But here’s my new dilemma.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where is the reality here?

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

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

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

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

Yes, you heard me right–vaginal dryness.

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

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

What a bitch!

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

Has it gone the way of my face?

OMG!  Say it isn’t so!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I digress.

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

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

I think this is a gimme here!

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

Part III–Waiting is…

…not my thing.  It never has been. I want what I want when I want it and that’s that!

Tick tock, tick tock.

For three days I paced back and forth watching for the mailman. I felt a little like a stalker.

Day four arrives and I see him approaching my mailbox with a small package. Finally!

I run to the end of the driveway and stick my arm through the iron gate so he can bi-pass the box and put it directly in my hands. I’m sure I must look like one of those movie orphans begging for ‘more please’, but I don’t care what he thinks as he watches my arm wave around like it’s possessed, like I’m some kind of complete idiot. Whatever is in that box is going to change my life so leaving a good impression on him is absolutely the last thing on my mind. He hands me the mail then hightails it back to his truck.

As  I walk back towards the front door of my house I feel like I’m walking on cloud nine. It’s like I’m holding in my hands  the secret to life, the serum of youth, the magic that will turn me from Mamma bear back into the cougar I once was.

My imagination during these magical moments of possibilities is running amok because I think I can actually feel my skin tightening with each step. Even better I feel a tingle in my groin. Whehaw!

So that gets me to thinking that if just looking at the box is doing this, the actual taking of these precious little drops was going to be over the top.

I set the box down on the counter in my kitchen and get a knife from the drawer. With the precision of a sushi chef preparing a piece of fine tuna I sliced the tape open, cracked the top of the box open, and there they were–two little brown bottles filled with, well, I don’t exactly know what’s inside them but I didn’t care. The blonde bombshell doctor said this was going to solve a lot of the problems I was experiencing.

I took the bottles to my bathroom upstairs and shut the door. I wanted privacy because this felt like a right-of-passage to me. I was about to experience something that would turn back the hands of time, at least that’s what I was hoping for.

I opened the estrogen first and watched as the whitish serum uploaded into the little squirter thing. I stuck my tongue up and out and raised the dropper towards my open mouth. I stepped closer to the mirror so I could see better and not miss the target.

One drop, two drops…

I swished them around in my mouth for about thirty seconds like directed then swallowed.  Then, like an idiot, I stood there staring at myself as though I was actually going to witness something miraculous. I leaned in closer to inspect the small nasty jowls that had changed my once lovely oval face into a some kind of boxy cartoon character shape but nothing was happening. My dimples did not suddenly reappear as expected, my wrinkles remain untouched, and my neck…well, that little mother-fucker of amassed freckled flesh sat in the same puddle as before.


Where was the magic?

My mind of course reeled out of control at the though that the other hormone, testosterone, was going to yield the same effect. But I persevered and uncapped it anyway.

One drop was all I was supposed to take but two fell into my mouth so fast it took me by surprise.


My mind once again started racing forward.

Maybe I should have pre-lingeried in case I had a sudden urge to mount my husband.

I looked at my watch and again I waited.

There was one brief moment when I thought I felt my nipples tingle but upon further inspection it turned out to be nothing more than a few errant crumbs from my earlier breakfast toast rubbing relentlessly between the material of my housecoat and my skin every time I moved.

The anticipation of my clitoris turning into a heat-seeking vessel made my body flush–for about one second and then nothing, nothing, and nothing!

I bowed my head down and started to pray that I could simply will this shit to kick in…but still nothing!

That’s when I saw the tiny note at the bottom of the box. I picked it up and read it. A tear came to my eye.

It would take a few weeks for this stuff to kick in as well.


The first week passed slowly. Still nothing. No youth, no horny…nada.

The second week brought a slight change. I was actually sleeping a little better than I had been so that was at least a little something.

I guess my husband had also been anticipating my horny as well because he was constantly walking around with a boner ‘just in case’ it kicked in. That would also explain the pained look I was seeing on his face whenever we were in the same room, and yes it would also explain the new bottle of personal lubricant I discovered by the bedside. Poor bugger!

Somewhere during the middle of that second week though I noticed something peculiar.

I was blow drying my hair early one morning but I had to keep stopping so I could figure out where the hell this foul odor was suddenly coming from. It was an assault as deadly as someone smacking me in the nose with a baseball bat. WTF?

Yep…every time I raised my arms if filled the room. I kept turning around to see if hubby had sneaked in but, to my dismay, I was the only one in the room.

I have not worn deodorant since I was in my teens because I never had to. I was blessed with sweet smelling sweat glands I guess. But this!!!! Whew!!!!! This was not good.

The blonde bombshell had forewarned me this could happen and so it was.

I thought to myself, okay, wearing deodorant isn’t that bad. I could do that no problem. It was no big deal. It occured to me that I should look for the other foretold side affects as well so I set the blow dryer down and stepped closer to the mirror.

Holy crap! Those two little plucker hairs I’d finally made peace with beneath my chin had multiplied tenfold. That prompted me to open my housecoat and check out my one or two little nipple hairs.


There was enough hair there now to actually do a little comb-over. Again I felt my body flush and started tearing through the drawer looking for my husbands shaver. No matter what else I’d let slide as far as my body was concerned, this was not going to be one of them.

At that point I could hear hubby coming down the hall towards the bathroom and I started to panic. I slid the shaver across my nipple and dislodged the little toupee in record time. I dropped the razor into the sink and threw a towel over it as the door opened. In he walked with his morning boner and he sees me standing there with my housecoat open, my breasts exposed, and his eyebrows shoot up in question. I know what he’s thinking and it pains me as I frown and shake my head in a no motion.

His shoulders slump, as does his penis, and he heads towards the toilet.

Flash forward to month two.

Testosterone is not my friend.

Body odor, hair shooting out of places it shouldn’t were just not my cup of tea. The fact that I never got that ‘fuck-me-now-or-die’ feeling, and the fact that I was shaving more than my husband put a kabosh on the whole thing. All in all, our sex life after thirty-two years is still pretty damn great so why mess with it if it ain’t really broken.

The estrogen on the other hand has made life more doable and more enjoyable. I guess what it boils down to is you’ve got to pick your poison wisely. You have to learn to settle on being happy for even the smallest of wonders.

Part II-Hormones can…

…make or break you in so many ways it’s hard not to laugh when the going gets tough, although I’ve recently discovered that at my age this kind of laughter can also significantly increase your chances of accidentally pissing down your own leg at the most inopportune time.

When hormones are raging, as in you actually still have some, it’s likely the time when we’re ready to hatch those little parasites…er…I mean those sweet little angels we call our children.

Oh yes, I remember those glory days when my skin was taut and flawless, and full of elasticity. My hair was shiny, the aging spots had yet to surface, and I could usually bounce back from whatever came my way as far as my body went.

Now that I’ve surpassed that time I only use the term elasticity when shopping for pants, as in “do these come with an elastic waistband?” or “how much give does this spandex shit really have?”

I no longer try not to acknowledge that bounce in my step because I know that ‘that bounce’ is usually just my softer, rounder fat ass trying to stay contained in my hip low-cut jeans.

After seeing my gynecologist and trying out the estrogen gel I knew things would eventually  be okay. Even though they hadn’t kicked in yet I was by no means ready to throw in the towel.

Some say I’ve got the patience of a saint. These of course, are the same people who never see me behind closed doors. Let’s face it, if I had reality camera’s rolling in our house 24/7 one of us, probably me, would likely be carted away to some nice freshly painted white walled facility by some kind of uber polite uniformed professional.

After chewing on this hormone thing I decided to investigate my options. I’d heard so much about bio-identical hormones I started asking all my girl friends if they’d ever tried it, and as it turns out, nearly all of them went bio-identical. I jumped on board and starting making some calls.

Turns out that there are not too many people who specialize in it, and those who do are booked so far in advance it takes months of waiting till you can go see them. But again, this is where my patience pays off. I book an appointment for, WTF, two months down the road.

My GYN is not big on these homeopathic solutions, she thinks they’re a bunch of hoey-baloey because pharmaceutical hormones are an exact science in her mind, but that did not deter me. I was not going to let her rain on my parade. Of course now all I had to do was convince her to send my blood test results to this new gal so I wouldn’t have to revisit that hideous blood drawing experience any time soon. Two arm wrestles later–I won!

I’m glad I jumped on this right away because as it turns out, my body was not absorbing the gel like it should have. All the death glares I was shooting out like ray vision in a sci-fi movie brought on by my estrogen depletion should have been the first hint that something was amiss. I now, single-handedly, had the ability to empty a room in less than three seconds just by making my presence known.

Tick tock, tick tock!

Anticipating this consultation was nearly enough to kill me as I counted the weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds until I could walk into this appointment demanding to be fixed.

Being ever the resourceful woman I am however, I came up with the perfect solution to throw whatever was or was not happening in my body off-balance.

I discovered that the Agave plant has medicinal qualities.

That’s right–Tequila.


That last day before my appointment seemed to crawl along like a snail trying to maneuver up a greased hill. I paced, I sat, I read, I surfed the net till my fingertips were raw. I kept looking at the clock hoping it would hit my bewitching hour and I could crawl into bed so I could stop all this waiting nonsense.



6:17 & 1/2

This was not going well so I turned my attention back to that Agave .

By eight o’clock that night me and that little worm at the bottom of the bottle were having a perfectly normal conversation.

“Swim you little bastard,” I’d chant.

“No, no señora, I am dead. I no can swim no more,” he’d reply.

“Bastard,” I’d say leaning in closer to the bottle trying to decide whether he was telling the truth or not.

I guess I should’ve read the warning label on the back of the bottle.

“This product can produce hallucinatory side effects.”

…as in one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, FLOOR!


Finally, morning rolls around. It’s ‘THE DAY’! My head is pounding and I have this weird recollection of speaking to the dead.

Regardless of my self-induced hangover, I shower, dress, jump in the car and head out to my appointment.

“Good morning,” I say. “I’m Jacqui, I’m here to see the doctor.”

“Just have a seat, she’ll be with you shortly,” she says.

“Is she running on time?” I query.

“Um…she’s actually not here yet,” she replies.

“What?” I say.

“You’re forty-five minutes early,” she says pointing to the clock.

I look at her clock and then at my watch.

Crap! Then it dawns on me that’s why I got such a good parking spot.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

I read through every magazine in the office as my ADD kicks in.

Finally the door next to the receptionist opens and I hear them call my name.

I step through the doors expecting to feel some sort of magical transformation. I don’t know why homeopathy makes me feel this way, it just does. I follow her down the hall to a teeny-weeny room. She tells me to sit down. Tells me the doctor will be right in. Tells me to relax.

Tick-tock, tick-tock!

I survey the room and wonder where the etherial music is. Where are the healing crystals I expected to see? Where is that magical aura I was expecting? Where the fuck was the doctor?

Ten minutes later in walks this blonde bombshell. The white coat tells me she must be the doctor but I’m still awed by the fact that she looks like a movie star. I try to sit up straighter but remnants of my self-induced hangover keep me slumped over like a dog out of treats.

“Good Morning,” she says with enough perk in her voice to command global peace.

“Grrrrrrrr….” is the only response that leaves my lips. I’m wondering why she’s so happy and why she’s talking so loud but of course I realize it’s only because I’m hungover.

She leafs through the paperwork I’ve filled out, then scans my blood test results.

“Oh…” she says taking a step or two back.

“Can you fix me,” I ask.

“Absolutely,” she says.

A slew of questions later she explains how she’s going to treat me.

“We’re going to give you estrogen,” she says then writes something in my file. “How’s your sex life,”

“My sex life?” I ask.

“Yeah, how’s your sex life?” she says again.

“What sex life?” I respond.

“You know…the one where you have sex,” she says.

“Oh, that sex life…mmmmm….!” I say needing to think this through for a minute. “It’s, you know…”

“How’s your libido, your sex drive, do you want to have sex?” she asks.

“Are you asking me if I want to have sex with you,” I respond a little shocked by her brevity.

“No, not with me, with your husband,” she says.

“Oh,” I say feeling a little rush of embarrassment course through my body. I’m surprised she didn’t add ‘you idiot’ to the end of her sentence.

“Libido’s not too good,” I tell her. “Can you fix that too?”

“Of course I can,” she says writing a note in my file. “You need testosterone.”

She begins to explain how this chemical works in the female body and I’m thinking, hell yes, I’m totally game for this.

“There’s a few side affects,” she says.

“Side affects,” I say. “Like what.”

“Well…you might grow a few stray hairs here and there,” she says.

“Stray hairs?” I say.

“Yeah like on your face,” she says. “Sometimes other places.”

My hand impulsively shoots up to my face. My fingers start rubbing that spot under my chin where I am constantly plucking out a couple of very coarse, very dark hairs.

“How many stray hairs? I ask.

“Maybe just a few, maybe a lot,” she says.

I have this sudden urge to pull open my shirt so I can see my boob, the one that loves to cohabit with a tiny group of strays. I try to picture my nipple wearing a toupee and this disturbs me.

“Are we talking shaving or plucking hair amounts?” I query.

“There’s a possibility of both,” she says.

“Oh,” I say.

As she starts reading my file again, I reach into my purse and find my glasses so I can see her better. This is when I notice several incredibly long hairs dancing around under her chin. I lean in to get a better look and see several more wisps on her cheeks. I realize by the looks of things, she’s a natural blonde.

“Do you take testosterone?” I ask.

“Yes I do,” she says still purusing my file. “My husband said he didn’t care if I started looking like Wolfman Jack, just so long as I wanted to have sex.”

“Ohhhh…!” I say.

As though she can feel my eyes burning into her skin she turns and looks at me.

“Why do you ask?” she says.

“Umm…no reason, just wondering,” I answer trying to divert my attention away from the imaginary neon arrow I see pointing to these outgrowths on her face.

“Will it make me…you know…horny?” I ask.

“It should if the dosage is right.” she says. “A lot of clients say that it works for them, but…”

“But what?” I ask.

“They say that they want to do everyone but their husband,” she says smiling.


“I’ll prescribe both,” she says. “You should get them in three or four days. They come from a lab in Phoenix.”

Crap! More waiting for me. Oh well, everything in its time I think.

…to be continued!