Valentine’s Day Gifts…(Part I)

…are always tricky.

Just ask the hubby. He tries. He really does. Bless his heart for putting up with my quirky, wacky way of being.

At this time of year, men and women are scrambling for ‘just the right thing’ to give their significant other.

If it were up to me, because I’m the handyman of the estate, I’d settle on a gift card from Home Depot. They’ve got something for everyone as far as I’m concerned. I love tools!

But because the hubby has this wonderful romantic side, he’s tried just about everything out there to pull me out of the dirt and back into the bedroom. And yes, there are specific tools for the bedroom as well, but that’s a story for another time.

So, I thought I’d compile a list of some of the BEEN THERE–DONE THAT items that have come and gone over the many years we’ve celebrated VALENTINES DAY!

One year he bought me a lovely “RUB ME BAR”!

Are you horny yet? You should be…

The RUB ME BAR is a little round disc of sensual pleasure for your skin. It smells amazing and sounds pretty sexy, right? Oh yeah. Hubby went all out. He made sure the kids were out of the house. He lit the candles in the bathroom. Ran a lovely hot bath. Put the good towels out and everything. We got naked, (do you feel the sexual tension building?), tested the water with our toes, mine painted passion red, his, well, they’re man toes. If I saw polish on them, it’s likely I wouldn’t be crawling into the tub with him. So things are starting off well!

But because I’m such a giver, I decide that once we’re in the bath, I’d use it on him first just in case it had some kind of irritant in it. I have uber-sensitive skin you see, so, if something was going to irritate anything it would show up on him first saving me from scratching all night. Turns out there was nothing in it but pleasure. Oh yeah! He laid back like a dog does when you rub it’s belly. He looked happy and I could see the steam building.

Unfortunately, by the time I was done with him, the entire little disc had turned into WHAT?


So guess who wasn’t getting their fair share of the sexy Rub Me Bar.  Okay, to be fair, hubby did get a boner, and his skin did look silky and smooth next to my dried out sorry ass, but as far as I’m concerned, this gift was self-indulgent. My rating of the RUB ME BAR turned immediately from one of pleasure to one of  “HONEY, THAT RUBBED ME THE WRONG WAY!”

Next up were the game cards. And I’m not talking about playing Gin in bed either, although a bottle of this in the nightstand might come in handy at some point. Whether or not it’s to drink as a mood enhancer, or to pour on a wound after a contortionist act gone wrong, a bottle of anything containing alcohol is always handy to have around.

No, these game cards are more like a POKER deck if you get my drift. I mean literally!

They’re neatly wrapped in these cute little envelopes. Each note has a daring little trick written on it. Something sexy. Something naughty. Some odd position. Some EAT THIS NOT THAT instruction. But, if you’ve read a few previous stories here, you’ll remember that the PARAMEDIC’S WILL NOT RESPOND if your emergency is because you’ve gotten yourself tangled up like a pretzel during sex. They do not consider this an emergency!

If this happens, all you can hope for is that you can reach that bottle of gin so you can drink enough to allow your body to relax enough to eventually untangle itself!


Hell. If I can drop my housecoat, and stand there, naked, in front of him–WITH THE FUCKING LIGHTS ON–at this age, I feel like I’ve crossed from the reality zone into the twilight zone anyway. Shouldn’t this be enough?

Games in the bedroom? I don’t know.

I think hubby should be satisfied with the King sized Twister sheets I just bought for our bed. You want games? I’ll give you games. I’ll even let you spin first!

Another gift that turned out to be a bust is what many call the ‘Best Valentine’s Gift Ever’ to give someone.

Oh Yeah. The ‘Great Escape’! Just thinking about it makes me want to rub my nipples! Oh yeah BABY!

A mini-vacation, a get-a-way from it all, a-dream-come-true-time-to-yourself-all-by-yourself-all inclusive-don’t have to do/say/make anything kind of gift! Go on, admit it. If you’re a wife and mother, this is sending a chill down your spine right now. You’re salivating! You’re already mentally packing your bags! I’ve got your number!

When you’re slopping through your chores, schlepping the children to and fro, bathing the dog, fixing a dinner, mending a broken pipe, changing an electrical outlet, doing the 20th load of laundry……Oh Hell, I could go on and on. You know…your daily routine, this gift sounds like God Head!

My hands were shaking when I tore the envelope open. I think I had a tear in my eye, so I didn’t see the details immediately.

The thought of  having only to decide what I wanted for room service, morning, noon, and night, had set my mind on fire. The idea of someone serving me……..drinks…..and then maybe even a splash in the spa pool–ALONE–WITH NO NOISE–WITH NO CHORES–WITH NO CHILDREN BUGGING ME–WITH NO………WELL, YOU GET THE PICTURE!

Instead, I threw my arms around the hubby’s neck in thanks. I’m thinking ‘there is a God’!

As I stood there, I once again looked at the gift certificate. My focus was returning. Wait! Why am I seeing the word GOLF? I bring it closer to my face and see that the getaway is for two!


I hug him harder as I read the rest of the details. Then I hug him harder still. I can feel him trying to peel my arms away from his neckas the air is depleting slowly but surely from his lungs, but I’m going to smother him with love. I am going to fight fire with fire. Asshole!

Yes, another self-indulgent gift! Check that one off your list bitches! It’s a trick!


Facebook Friends…

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

Well, I’ve had it.

This letter is to my friend Ruth.


Did I just use your real name.


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

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


Well, fuck you very much!

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

I digress!

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

And then…….get this!

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

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

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


My only mistake was friending them on Facebook!

This is not good.

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

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

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

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



10 Sexy Moves…

…that turn your guy on!

Now there’s a headline that’ll catch your eye when you’re menopausal! 

Of course, I had to read it just to see if there was anything that could make me less, you know, mom like and more the wild cougar I know that’s been screaming to be set free for the past decade.

Hell…I know I’ve been slipping, and so have a few other things, but that’s a story for a different story.

I perused the article top to bottom, because hell, I can use all the help I can get. Now don’t get me wrong here. I’ve tried plenty of tricks in my day and I’m sure I’ve still got a few up my sleeve………somewhere–Lurking. Up. By. My. Flabby. Upper. Arm.

A few years back I switched from old-fashioned granny panties to a thong thinking this was uber-sexy. Wrong! Hubby said to me one day, if I want to floss I’ll go into the bathroom and….you get my drift? Turns out he likes a little more coverage. Or, does it mean that there’s more to see than I think there is? Mmm………

I tried installing a stripper pole in the bedroom once but hubby said it was screwing up his direct view of the television. So, being the handy woman I am, I sawed it in two and installed it in my closet so I could hang more clothes, and I have to admit, my clothes actually do look a lot more sexy now. The pole thing really is the bomb!


Okay, so RULE #1 Talks about makeup, or rather the lack of it.

“Oh, I love how she looks when she wakes up in the morning, fresh, clean, natural…..”


How old are these people they’re talking to, twelve?

At my age, the first thing I usually have to do when I wake up is to pry my top lip off my teeth, because I’ve apparently snored all the moisture out of my body. Or better yet, if I’ve somehow managed to retain a little moisture and managed a drool or two, I have to scrape the 900 count egyptian cotton pillowcase off my cheek because, as far as I can tell, drool contains some kind of secret glue.

Worse case scenario, if I’ve had a few (or a hundred) hot flashes before the ‘rem’ cycle kicks in, which is what brings on the snoring, (no it has nothing to do with pre-bedtime tequila consumption), there’s a good chance that that bottom fitted sheet is going to leave the bed with me when I try to disengage from it because it’s gotten caught up in the crack of my ass like a menopausal wedgie.

The no make up thing?

I don’t think so!

I usually make it a point to sleep with my make-up on in order to prevent any accidental viewings of what I look like before the smoke and mirrors come out.

I remember a couple of years back, I woke up just as it was getting light, and I was feeling a little frisky. I rolled over towards the hubby and ran my hand across his back. This always get’s him going. A moment later he rolls over and slowly opens his eyes. I layed there quietly anticipating some soft sexy whimper to leave his lips telling me how much he wanted me. I think I even batted my eyelashes once or twice trying to build some steam. Instead, he raised himself up on one elbow and looked me directly in the eye with such concern it scared me a little.

He said, ‘What’s the matter, are you sick?”

That’s when I remembered  that I’d showered right before I went to bed and Washed. My. Fucking. Face!

Rule #1 got tossed immediately.

RULE #2 Talks about how men like a woman’s belly to be soft, not skinny and boney. How love handles were just that–love handles!


I won’t even pontificate about this rule because I happen to have a soft round belly like most women my age!

RULE #3 States that men like our quirky habits.


One of my quirky habits is that I like to renovate, remodel, and rearrange.

I can rip a room down to its studs single-handedly in a couple of hours. This might fall under the premise of insanity rather that just quirky so I’m on the fence about this one really being a quirk. However, it is something I do on a fairly regular basis. My family has learned over time that they should not leave me at home alone longer that two days at a stretch because, on at least one occasion many years ago, I had a very intimate date with my sledgehammer. They were all away and I was trying to get used to some new ‘lose twenty pounds in 24 hours diet pills’ I bought from a middle of the night infomercial. I don’t know what was in said pills but I was bouncing off the wall. Literally!  They came home to an empty kitchen. As in the kitchen was gone…down to the studs, and, I only had to get one tetanus shot.

I think it would be fair to say that hubby definitely does not like my quirks, nor does our bank account!

RULE#4 Says that our significant others like it when we wear our hair natural.

I spend plenty of time trying to tame my long brunette lockes. When left on their own, they form what I call a ‘white afro’, more commonly known as Rosanna Dana Banana (SNL) hair. It’s not curly, yet it’s not straight. It falls into the frizz category. Or what some might call the ‘Medusa Syndrome’. This is where, on my lazy days, my collection of baseball hats comes in handy. You tuck that shit up, or ponytail it under that cap, throw some eyeliner on and a splash of lip gloss, well now you’re talking. I look like any other celebrity trying to dodge the paparazzi. (Remember I live in Hollywood!)

RULE# 5 Goes on about our eyelashes.

How we women use our ‘batting’ ability to drive our men wild. Now, the one thing I am not an expert on is applying false eyelashes. No-siree! This I suck at. I remember one event I was attending where everyone had to look pretty glamorous. I decided that I’d don the falsies just to give my eyes a little zing, you know, that extra little thing so people would notice my gorgeous green eyes. Like all the other women, I pranced around, flaunting my secret little wisps of beauty. I posed for photos. I felt like everyone’s eyes were on me. Some people were actually staring at me, and I thought to myself, all the extra care I took getting ready had been worth it. You know, I looked special! Well the next morning, I couldn’t wait to look on Facebook as there would be a gazillion pictures posted from the event. Sure enough there was post after post, and oddly enough there were several very close up shots of ‘ME’, which was thrilling. at. first. I have pretty bad eyesight so I had to click and enlarge each photo. I felt my heart sink as picture after picture revealed that I had inadvertently attached the false eyelashes on backwards making me look quite cross-eyed. I didn’t even have the heart to read the comments because I knew what it was going to say. The lovely Jacqui Brown, doesn’t she look “SPECIAL”! I think that was the last time I ever wore false eyelashes. If I’m going to bat anything now there’d better be a freaking baseball involved.

RULE #6 Glorifies the smooth leg. Well, whooped-de-do!

Do men actually understand what it takes to keep these legs of ours smooth? How much time we spend wielding a sharp tool against our delicate skin, or how many strips of hot wax we must endure for their silky pleasure?

Personally, this is one of those dastardly tasks I hate because my hair grows in so quickly. The good news for me is that I never wear shorts. Never. Ever! The bad news is I love, love, love linen pants, but linen happens to be one of those materials that can get caught up on things pretty easy. I recall one time walking around, thinking I looked spectacular, when by chance I happened to glance down towards my feet. Sure enough, I’d forgotten to shave that morning and my pant leg was stuck half-way up my shin on some unsightly stubble. Crap! 

RULE #7 Expands on how men like their women’s style.

I most certainly have my own style.

Actually, style might be pushing it.

I’m more like a uniform wearer. Black on top and bottom, black on top with jeans…that’s pretty much it. Only during the summer time does this vary. Then I’m apt to throw on the white linen pants (yes, the same ones that stick to my hairy legs) topped by a black tank top, and often times I cover that with a little vest type garment that allows me to not have to suck in my stomach all the time. As for my hair, it’s pretty much been the same style for thirty-some years. Long and straight, or long with a touch of Rosanna Danna Banana frizz. I usually get it trimmed once a year by a real professional, then I snip and clip it once a month between my yearly visit. This last trim was so that I could look like the menopausal version of Kim Kardashian. I knew this would turn on the hubby so long as his focus stayed above the waist. That bitch has got me so beat in the ass department. But hey, you can’t all!

RULE #8 Your Scent.

I’ve got this one covered now that I’ve stopped taking testosterone.

Who knew the side effects could make you smell like a trucker that’s been on the road too long.

After a few weeks of smelling like a skanky old man, I decided that my libido was going to have to find some other means of returning.

RULE #9 Asking For What You Want

After thirty two years of marriage I don’t ask any more. I blaze my own trail. I do what I want. I go when I want to go. I go where I want to go. I see who I want to see. Of course, since I’m a stay-at-home-mom, the only thing I ask for is enough money to do all the above.

RULE# 10 Your Job  

I can’t actually bust this one since I don’t have a ‘real’ job.

All I do every day, seven days a week is scrub floors, polish & dust, wash windows, wash clothes, iron, grocery shop, vacuum, garden, fix whatever needs to be fixed, cook all the meals, do dishes, referee family debates, placate everyone into happiness, apply medical attention to the accident prone, home school my son, drive and chaperone said son on dates, do the banking, pay the bills on time, renovate anything if I can get away with it,  throw in a blow-job here and there to keep the tension at it’s lowest possible level, and if there’s any time left–I write another book. 

This not working thing is really working for me! So there you have it. 10 rules their way, and ten mine. If you have any other rules you’d like to include, feel free to leave them in the comments and I will take them into consideration. 

Vagina’s Have SuperPowers…

…or so I’ve discovered over the years.

No—they can’t make beds or cook a nice dinner, nor can they do the laundry, fold clothes, locate missing socks or vacuum.

If they could that would make the vagina the world’s most perfect multi-tasking machine.

Everyone would want one, even men.

Not that they don’t already want one whenever.

They can’t change a tire, weed a garden, grocery shop, or get the children off to school.

They definitely can get some things off but it ain’t the children.

They can’t play cards or bingo (although I think I’ve heard mine scream that word out loud from time to time).

We women tend to take very good care of this wonderous man/women-trap. We groom it, primp it, and prime it to function on a moments notice. Hell, now we can even bejewel it. We can make it glitter and glow like a showpiece, like it’s supposed to be seen and not heard.


I tried this a few times but I guess my idea of a joke didn’t coincide with hubby’s idea of a joke.

The first adornment was placed just above my pubic hair right after I decided it was time to tighten up the little bugger.

Yes…I had a penchant for Kagel’s a few months back after I notice that every time I sat down I’d hear that weird sound similar to a tire losing air.

That  sparkly red slogan read:


Hubby did not take this one well!

As soon as I’d accomplished all I’d set out to do that slogan was quickly replaced  with:



So okay, hubby wasn’t thrilled with that one either but at least it didn’t stop him from shopping, although if I remember correctly, I do believe he waited for the first “SALE–Save 50%” sign to go up. He’s no dummy! He still likes a bargain when he can get one!



I guess what I’m trying to say it that we forget these powers. We allow our ‘Gina’s’ to lose priority! We know it gets weary sometimes when we lose ourselves in mundane chores and everyday occurrences that cause you think about anything other that ‘workin’ it.

So what we have to do is reconfirm what benefits we can ascertain from the use of our well experienced man-cave?

What doors can it open?

What perks can it entitle us to?

How many times do you have to engage it to wreak a reward?

Yes…there are so many questions surrounding the Super-Powers of that little bugger it’s mind-boggling but in my book, re-evaluation periodically is mandatory.

Of course without constantly researching what’s in and what’s out we may never get all the answers…right girls?

So let’s break it down here.

The vagina lives in the area of our body that contains most of our breakable parts so I know it’s intelligence level, based on that fact alone, means it can’t possibly be the smartest tool in the shed, but then again, maybe smart’s not always best.

Maybe this is where that phrase ‘you dumb c@#t’ comes from. I mean, why else would anyone use this idiotic vulgar slur if it didn’t have something to do with the intelligence level of a woman’s vagina?

When you’re young, horny, and single, it can be used as a social-networking  tool while you’re trudging through the heap of men looking for Mr. Right.  After you find said man you learn to appreciate the fact that it will willingly work with you and you alone accepting only those sacrificial sperms you choose in order to create offspring.

It knows there are rules and acts accordingly.

This puckered looking pock mark can stop a man or woman dead in his or her tracks no matter how old you are. It can raise a penis as easy as it can raise a heart beat. Hell, it can even raise an eyebrow when it makes a surprise appearance. This we know for a fact from all the YouTube action surrounding those rare and spectacular celebrity accidents!

It can change the mood of a day (or night) in under thirty seconds.

It can put a smile of your face and keep it there all day.

It can also keep a smile on someone else’s face all day if you know what you’re doing.

Yes, during my 5o-some years of working this anatomical wonder I’ve learned a thing or two along the way.

Here’s a perfect example!

Just the other day hubby seemed down and out, which happens so rarely I knew he really needed my attention. I guess you could call this the emotional trickle down theory. You give a little, you get a little.

What the problem was I have no idea, I just knew something had to be done to rectify the situation.

This was one of those ‘not-so-uncommon-times’ where a ‘mercy fuck’ was in order. Yes this was definitely one of those occasions where I had to step up to the plate and use my feminine healing powers.

The mere mention of a romp in the sack immediately put a sparkle in his eye, a skip in his step, and a boner in his pants.


It doesn’t take much to pull a guy out of any kind of funk when you know which Band-Aide to apply!

So you must be wondering what did I get out of it? I’ll tell you what I got out of it.

New shoes, a haircut, a night out on the town, and a much happier guy on my arm!

So this just proves my point!

There is no question that a woman’s vagina has Super Powers.

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!

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!

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 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!

Weight has…


…always been an issue for me. For the better part of my youth I was what you’d call a big girl. You know that girl. The one whose face you’d compliment because you couldn’t see all the way around the rotundness to compliment anything else.  

I never thought of myself as ‘gigantic’ because I was smaller than most of my friends. Now they were hefers! So yeah, weight has always been a big issue in my life.  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not grossly overweight in the physical sense but my brain always tells me different. I think that makes me like most women who’ve had these little [or big]  battles with their body identity.

I suffer from what many middle-agers suffer from…that dastardly, annoying, freaking spare tire-ish bulge that seems to gather around our waist while we’re not paying attention. What comes to mind when I happen to catch a glimpse of this stockpile of flesh is elephant ankles where the skin just seems to lay in layers. Part of this problem of course is due to menopause, at least that’s what I tell myself. Okay, I may bitch about menopause but it does have some perks. We can lay blame to a lot of things that happen to our body during these non-blood-letting years. Thank God for small favors!

Something I find kind of interesting is how belly fat has become big business. Their main target is women, especially the ones who’ve earned their baby badges. Every day you see those asinine ads for pills/patches/smoothies that will reduce your protrusions with little or no effort. You know the ones. Pop a pill starting Monday and drop a few clothing sizes by Friday. Helloooooooo…

Is anyone out there really buying this crap? Are we that stupid? I mean really!

Okay…so I’ve sent for a few of these products. Admittedly, I am an I-D-I-O-T!!! I got sucked in by a few of those smooth talking salespeople who made it sound so easy, so believable, soooooo promising. I followed the plan, popped a pill, put my feet up and waited. And then I waited some more, and a little more after that. Was my ass or gut shrinking? NO! Not even one eensy-teensy inch.

You might as well just find a drug dealer who can supply you with speed, or better yet, just switch to espresso. All it did was make me talk faster and run around like a chicken that just got its head cut off. Another side affect is the shaking. You know that nervous twittering you get when your blood sugar is to low. Maybe this is how you actually lose the weight–you shake it off.

I’m not exactly sure what the ingredients are, I’ve never been into reading labels, but they drove my ADD into hyper-drive. This pissed my husband off, because on occasion [I’ve always been the ‘handyman’ of the house] I’ve been known to strip a room down to its studs in under four hours rather that just splash a new coat of paint on the walls to get the same effect. Oh yeah, those $30 miracle pills cost us about $20,000 to rebuild our kitchen.

So, working on the premise of ‘been there, done that’, I came to the conclusion that any extra pounds I’ve acquired, well, they’re just going to have to come off the good old-fashioned way. Starvation and exercise. Fuck me!

I knew I had to make a plan and so plan I did. Me and the Hubby [whose idea of exercise is moving the fork from the plate to his mouth] started walking every morning. This is not only good for the body (fat), it’s also a great way to clear your head. We’d  try to get in at least a mile and a half each day. We’d been doing this faithfully for about a year but then I fucked that up when I discovered a shortcut. Duh!

Another brilliant realization I came to because I’m such a clean freak was that I could use normal household appliances as part of my cardiovascular workout. I have this horrible bad habit of loading my laundry machine in an uneven way. It used to piss me off listening to it bounce around trying to escape from it’s built in space, but then, the more I thought about it the more I realized that maybe it was trying to tell me something. Maybe it had been trying to get my attention all along.

I stood there one morning watching as it gyrated and it occurred to me that there was a good possibility it could help in my endeavor to slim down.

At first, I just leaned against it, kind of testing the waters you know. Oh boy, that was an eye opener. All of a sudden I could feel my loose flesh slop back and forth, kind of like those waves you see in a pool after someone does a cannonball.

I found this quite depressing because I realized there were things moving that I didn’t expect to move. You know, things like my recently acquired double chin. Oh yeah, I know it’s there, I’ve seen pictures. Hell that’s why I always hold my chin up so high now. Do you know how many reflective surfaces you come across in a day? Crap, they’re everywhere! The other double chins, the ones that hang loosely on the underside of my upper arms were also having a hay-day. My butt…hell…that sucker was having its own party too. 

So much for Plan A.

I knew that I’d have to figure out a way so that I didn’t actually feel this stuff, my fat, moving around as though it was possessed by the devil himself.

After pondering on this for a day or so Plan B unfolded in a moment of brilliance.

Because I’m very conscious of my flaws I have several undergarments that forcefully mold these devilish curves back to where they’re supposed to be. It was simple. I’d don one of these one-piecer’s  under my housecoat, [I’m usually doing the laundry in the middle of the night because I suffer from insomnia–again–thank you menopause] throw on a pair of running shoes, and off to the laundry room I’d head. Thank God my family is slobbish when it comes to their clothes because there’s never a lack of laundry that needs to be tended to. I’d be able to do this every day.

Taking this experiment one step farther I decided it was time to jump on board. I hoisted myself up on top of the ‘now-on-purpose-overloaded machine and pushed the button. Whee Hah! It was like riding one of those electric bulls at a country and western bar. I would not recommend drinking coffee while doing this unless you put it in one of those travel mugs. Oh well, more laundry for me.

Now, this is quite a tricky process because there’s a good possibility that the machine will buck you off like a pissed bronco bull, so you’ve got to figure out how to brace yourself. The door frame was a good start. I’d put one foot up there and then I had to move the big cabinet that holds all my tools a little closer so there’d be a place for the other foot. It’s not exactly a pretty site but it seems to do the job. I figure I can get in about two hours of this before the sun comes up so there’s no chance of getting busted in my ridiculous looking pose wearing things no one should see publicly. There is also another perk while using this method. Not only does the machine gyrate it also vibrates if you get my drift. Yes I go about this chore happily now. My children think I’m nuts because I’m always gathering up their clothes now–dirty or not. I’m not going to tell them any different. 

The other thing I invested in are those rubbery ropes, the ones you do calisthenics with. They’ve got little hand grips on either end so they’re fairly easy to use. Using these started out with a bang, and then my decision to stop using them also came with a bang. If you’re going to use them outside to work your back, you have to sling it over something to add pressure. Well, let me tell you if you choose a tree branch, it better be a big ass tree branch. I made the mistake of using a lower thinner branch, which did not pan out. It only took two pulls before the twiggy little bugger broke free and crashed into the bridge of my nose. It was at this point I realized these particular workout tools also make good gardening tie-backs.

All in all, I’m getting it together this year. My New Year resolutions have unfolded. I’ve vowed to walk slower. This way things I don’t want to move don’t, or at least they don’t move enough to attract attention. I’ve vowed to look in the mirror once in the morning while I’m getting ready and avoid anything that might reflect my image during the rest of the day. I’ve vowed never to give my fat and fatter clothes away again. I’ve vowed to tell myself I’m not fat–I’m just not thin. You know bullshit things. A girls gotta do what a girls gotta do, right?

So there you have it in a nutshell. I’m starting this year off with a fresh start. I’m going to get in shape or at least shape what I got. 

Well, I’ve got to run. The timer just went off. I think my brownies are done! Bon Apetite!