Fickle? Kinda. Not really. Well, okay.

As a public service, I want to enlighten those in the dark.

In general, girls are fickle. We get only a little less fickle as we get older. Having been around the block a time or twenty, we are certainly more resolute about some things, but now we deliberately reserve the right to change our minds—because we can—and we will even verbalize this caveat at opportune moments.

"Oh, man I want that car—all black and sleek. I mean, I would look HAWT in it. Gotta be mine! Unless something totally weird makes the deal unworkable. In which case, I want that little red one. It's aaaaall shiny and sleek."

We want to do or have something really badly, until we don’t. And as we get older we develop the wherewithal to analyze and explain our changes of heart with the folksy eloquence of a Palin ghostwriter so it doesn’t seem that we’re inherently befuddled, just in touch with our base. It’s no wonder guys can’t keep up.

Before my 20s, my fickleness showed up in crushes. I was infamous for putting boys through the Bubble Gum Test. How fast can you chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out?

Case in point #1: Really cute 16-year-old Dale. The day we’d established our mutual crushes, he later took off his jacket, and I discovered he was wearing the very same striped, purple, gold, and red cable sweater I was. It was the ‘70s—we strived for androgyny, but still . . . Kinda girly, dude. Still, he walked me home from school wearing his twin sweater, which slip-stitched its way into my psyche like a fat ball of yarn poked through with bamboo knitting needles. By the time we got to my house and he’d kissed me (with his mouth over my entire face), I had let loose my quick-change artiste. Chew, chew, chew, spit!

Case in point #2: Greg, the foxy senior on whom I had a life-altering crush, who finally gave me a second look after a lot of fawning and flirting on my part. We convinced him to ditch school with us for an impromptu trip out to Lake Pleasant. It was winter; we had no swimsuits. The potential lurked for skinny dipping. My evil plan was working perfectly. Until I decided my nipples would be bigger than my boobs in that cold. But Greg kicked off his shoes, dropped his shirt and jeans, and ran into the icy waters in only his boxers. All eyes were glued on him. Look at that physique! How macho to brave the elements! And he’s interested in ME! Then he came out of the lake in a hurry, visibly chilled, with little Bojangles popping his head in and out of that little boxer flap with every step over the rocks. Holy crap! Chew, chew, chew, spit!

I really wanted to write this for some time, but then I changed my mind for reasons I can't explain, and then I just said, WTF, go ahead Princess. People need to KNOW this shit. So there you go. Consider yourself publicly served.
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Hold It!

Raise your hand if when you sneeze, you also pee yourself a little. Don't be shy. It happens. Guys included. This convulsive expulsion bursts out at over 47 mph (or 75 km). At that speed, if you didn't release a little pee, you might spurt around the room like a balloon. Conservatively, at least 33.3% of all females who sneeze—or cough or laugh or do aerobics or, my favorite, jump on trampolines—leak a tad. Dude, party's over.

FYI Kegelmeisters, your beloved kegel can only do so much. I personally perfected the Squeeze-n-Sneeze. Cross your knees, brace yourself, and then ACHOO! But everybody knows what you're doing, right? Don't answer that.

Recently I went to a doc for a urodynamics test. This is THE worst test you can undergo ever. EVER. One word, people: cath (short for catheter, which can no longer be uttered in my presence without me shriveling up and whimpering in a corner). You get a cath up the old U-ha and suddenly you're in your tech's face spitting: "Kill me now, or get that mo-fo outta me before I kill you." I mean, I'm just guessing. Ahem, as a result of that torture, my doc decided I was a candidate for the bladder sling. He said, "Why don't you try a pessary first, though, before we go the surgical route?" And I thought he was my advocate.

See, a pessary is a flat, circular, spacecraft-hard plastic device about two inches in diameter, with holes. Think giant white button, circa 1950. Think Frisbee inside your tummy control pantyhose. Think flying saucer embedded inside the Holland Tunnel. A pessary sits horizontally inside the hoo-ha. Its position keeps the urethra in place so you don't leak when you sneeze. Sounds like a reasonable solution, right? Except for a little thing called logistics.

Issue One: blind installation. It’s not like you’ve got a telescope that sees around corners.
Issue Two: we’re talkin’ deep into the jungle, people. Remember when you lost your earring down the drain? Did sticking your fingers down into that little hole really work? Could you have used a Nifty Nabber for gripping that sucker?
Issue Three: navigating tender vajajay tissue with fingernails, especially acrylics. Does this really need explanation?

After only 48 hours, I tossed my pessary into a drawer.

TG texted me two weeks later: Hey, what's that thing that looks like a button in your room?
Me: No clue.
TG: Kids are playing with it.
Me: Still don't know.
TG: They're tossing it around like it's a Frisbee.
Me: Nope, don't have a—wait, looks like a little disc, with holes? White? Hard plastic?
TG: Yeah.
Me: You don't want to know what that is.
TG: Destructo had it in his mouth.
Me: Um, how about those Cowboys?

I knew then what I had to do. To protect the nanababies from future trauma--the kind that can only come from their mom telling all their friends that they once chewed on a Feminine Frisbee, I signed up for the bladder sling. That's what I've been up to the last week and why I haven’t blogged. When I heal in six weeks, I'll let you know if the Squeeze-n-Sneeze will be part of my repertoire ever again. The Feminine Frisbee will not.
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The Point

One reason I write this blog is to make a point about being me. Oh, yes. There is a point. You see, I am an, um, older woman. Not so old as to have AARP on speed dial, but old enough that my offspring have offspring. (I warned them, but they insisted on having sex, so now there are kids everywhere.)

These days I share a home with my daughter, her husband, and their rugrats. I work a full-time J.O.B., and my true passion as a writer is realized whenever I choose the risky behavior of getting myself in flow (Settle down, I operate in private and wash my hands afterward). I am the grateful beneficiary of fabulous friends and family who love and support me, not to mention the hundreds of dedicated Fragrant Liar readers and followers. I'm healthy in mind and body, wealthy in vitality and spirit, and wise in experience and common sense (shut up). I'm single—okay, divorced—but in a relationship (refer to surprise FaceBook announcement). While I am unique, I am not uncommon.

Therein springs the point.

We of this day and age are redefining what it means to be in so-called midlife, propelled by necessity to think not only outside the box (not that box, Otin), but outside the bedroom (okay, maybe that box). We want to replenish, rejuvenate, and rethink where we're headed and how many peeps we're taking with us. Our new wealth of connections in cyberspace have emboldened us.

Less than a hundred years ago, our mommy/nana counterparts were on their last ovary. They were overworked, weathered, and worn out by now. If they were unmarried, they were spinsters or widows. Current midlifers have shifted the tectonic plates of tradition, as has every generation, but now the pace of change seems exponential because technology allows us to communicate on a scale we never could have realized back when we were stretching a string between two empty Alpo cans. I'd like to thank the first geeky people who came up with bloggy theorem, but I don't know any. They did this.

I am a revealer. I share with you the details that inform my life, including the entertaining and embarrassing bits—voluntarily, which does strain my credibility, I know. However, my choice of self expression says loudly that no one pigeonholes me (not that pigeonhole, Otin). I speak candidly here because I am "out there," unafraid and unapologetic. (Mostly.) Judge all you want, people.

See, women of my day and age don't wait in rockers with curlers in their hair for the young'ns to visit anymore—although I am in the market for a recliner with a convenient holder for snackage and drinkage and garbage so I don't have to miss a moment of my fave shows.* And kiddos? Call first, will ya? No, we modern midlifers move and shake, even if solely for our own benefit. We seek purpose and fulfillment. We value quality of life and the chance to keep learning and growing. We revel in camaraderie and acceptance of who we are. We choose to not be invisible. We demand that our voices matter.

And that's the point.
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*If I didn't want to get out and have fun so much, I might invent a pleasant catheter experience so my feet never had to hit the floor. Oh, and have you seen the recliner that pops you upright with the press of a button? One second you're in repose, then BOING! you're dancing with Gilles! That one's got my name on it.
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Wicked Red and the Wolf

So this is Wicked Red Riding Hood and her Wolf.

Grrrrr . . .

Hope y'all had as much fun as we did, traipsing through the dark, on the hunt for tricks and treats . . .

Wicked

Tomorrow is Halloween. Much as I had my heart set on going pirate this year, something a little more wicked this way comes. I want to improve on my Goody-Two-Shoes persona. You know the one, right?

Wait.

Oh Goodie, I have two shoes . . . Therefore I must be a saint? Who makes that shit up? Sorry . . .

So what sort of wicked shall I be? Here are your clues:

• I’m a real family girl.
• I love vermillion.
• I hang out in dark and dank woodlands. Alone.
• The man I’m attracted to is quite big and bad. But I ain’t a-scared.
• My, but I am fascinated by his big . . . teeth.

Heh, heh. Real hard, huh? Pics to come after the scary event, and you can judge for yourself just how wicked I turn out to be. Or maybe I’ll let Mr. Fine tell you how wicked I was – if that wolf is still alive after I’m through with him. His bark doesn’t scare me in the least. And I kinda like his bite.

What will you be this year? Not Goody Two Shoes, I hope.

Spanxed!

I needed an undergarment for my new sweater dress which hugs my curves a little too well. However, it was Sunday night when I decided this, and in Marshall’s all I could find was spanx. I admit, I thought spanx might be fun to try, so Mr. Fine bought it for me. Yes, he is fabulous.

First off, this “shaper” on the hanger looks like a body bandage sized for an elf, though the tag said it was LARGE. It fits me from tops of the boobage to mid thighs. I did look stylin’ in my sweater dress, and I wore the ensemble, including the new black bootery, all day. However, there was a lot of tugging involved, as my Lycra contraption wanted to ride up from the bottom and roll down from the top. I gave in by early afternoon and let the girls free since they have little tolerance for compression at a hundred-thousand pounds per cup. The extra elastic around my chest, just below the girly shelf, was akin to wearing rubber bands. But I survived my discomfort for the sake of looking HAWT.

Later that evening, while in my closet, I decided to take off the spanx – over my head. Since wearing this spanx is like stuffing yourself into an elf’s condom, I realized pretty quickly that “over my head” was going to be a challenge. Too late though by the time I had grabbed the hem and pulled it up over my head. This effectively blinded me while pinning my arms across my chest, elbows akimbo, Lycra stretched like a Bay Bridge cable. Stumbling around my closet, in a wrestling match with my spanx, I gave myself a full nelson. If the thing had hardened through ten minutes of struggling, I could have emerged with dusty wings and a penchant for light bulbs. Or I might have tripped over my own boots from extreme disorientation and hapless exertion and died in the corner of my closet. No one would have found me till the next day when my putrefying scent would have overpowered the catbox.

As it was, I nearly dislocated both shoulders in a vintage Houdini escape. Exhausted, with my hair standing electrified in all directions, I staggered to the shower. I stood dazed under the water, mumbling incoherently about glorified girdles and the benefits of publicly displayed muffin tops.

Mr. Fine would have been horrified, so I’m glad he was not around to witness it; though, sadly, my cat Matilda saw the whole thing. This morning, she hunkered down and growled as I waved the spanx in her face in an effort to de-sensitize her. When I left, she was mumbling incoherently about throwing herself in front of a car.

They need to package this stuff with an instruction manual. Heed my warnings, people. Spanx should be worn at your own risk. Today I’m in recovery, wearing slacks too sizes too big and a bulky sweater that leaves me shapeless. Ramping up for: Spanx vs. Me, Round 2.
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How to Freak Out Your Kid

As a single mom of four adult daughters, I have to say there are few greater giggles in life than seeing the looks on their faces when I do things they're not expecting. And trust me, it's not hard to get a BIG rise out of them.

This particular “look” came from my eldest last Friday evening as I raced out of the house for my weekend getaway at a B&B with Mr. Fine. An astonished mix of disgust and horror came over TG's face when she saw me joyfully dangling the shiny handcuffs that her little Destructo had discovered while pillaging my jewelry box.

“Hey, thanks, buddy!" I shouted. "Good idea! See you guys Monday!”

Horror and disgust.

Sweet!
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Wee Wisdom

Miss America’s Poignant Pearl of the Week:

"You know, if you believe in yourself, that’s true."

Deal Makers

I previously published a Deal Breakers post wherein I laid out the characteristics I simply won't tolerate in a man/partner/sex god. Since then, I've been asked many times what the Deal Makers would be. So here they are, in no particular order, if any guy can measure up:

1. Intelligent. He must get my Spockiavellian logic—and my jokes.


2. Flutter-worthy. I must get flutters in my stomach when I know I get to see him.


3. Sexy. He must make me wonder what's goin' on under those jeans—without trying—and he must only have eyes for me.


4. Pet-lover. Must love dogs, but more importantly, must love cats.


5. Financially stable. Must have his own bank account. One with something in it. Oh, and a little extra to fly me to exotic locales around the world. And Phoenix. And the moon.


6. Foodie. He must love to cook. I gotta eat, people.


7. Humor. He must laugh hysterically, or at least enthusiastically, at my irreverence, and he must never diss it by calling it "baudy." Although, I do like baudy. Nasty is a fun word too. And vagina. Don't you love those words? And he's got to be able to give it back to me. No shrinking irises. Make me laugh, dude.


8. Travel bug. He must have a "let's get outta here" button, as I am bored of staying home.


9. Family guy. He must have been there, done that with the young family and the exes. He must feel at ease with all manner of rugrats, including the rowdier ones, like my precious Destructo. I have graduated from sippy cups to wine tastings, but family is True North.


10. Standup guy. This applies to being who he says he is and walking the talk. Also, I like it when a guy pretends he's on stage and tries to make me laugh. Oh wait, that's #7, Humor. Okay then, I'll go with Standup and Strip. Stripping is good on stage. With or without bump-and-grind music, handcuffs, and tear-away leathers; I'm not picky.


11. Playful. He must be quick and easy with a smile. He must not be afraid of pillow fights, too cool to dance in the rain (naked, if required by me), or too timid for Spin the Bottle.


12. Affectionate. In private or in public. No exceptions. If I want a kiss while standing in the grocery line holding a cucumber, I want a kiss! And it better be a pirate kiss too. He must like to hold my hand, just because.


13. Supportive. I have dreams, people. He must want me to succeed. He must be happy to encourage me to shoot for the stars, despite that they're a long way off, and he must make sure I have plenty of sustenance for the trip (see #6, Foodie).


14. Tolerant. Yes, I admit. I have quirks. He must be totally enamored with me so he can man-up when I get huffy and cuss (or shoot the bird) in public, which is like almost fucking never, but it could happen and then he would have to abandon his shock and embarrassment and say, "It's okay, baby, your mouth is beautiful and you still rock my world." See how that works?


15. Adoration. Yes, he must enthusiastically adore every nook and cranny of my glorious fanny, and all my other glorious stuff. But more importantly, he must really, really like me even when I'm not so likeable. Aaaah-ha-ha-ha-ha! As if I'm not a total freakin' saint! Am I right?


16. Honest. He must be the man he says he is and always tell the truth. He must also be savvy enough to lie to me about my butt or my double chin when that is what I need to hear.


17. Inspirational. He must inspire trust and optimism and hope for a dreamy future. I don't mind seeing god once in a while, like during sex, but I'm not going to church for that stuff.


18. A rock. I must feel safe and secure with him. He must protect me from big, hairy, scary monsters. Although I'm a big girl with, shall we say, sass and attitude, he must still have my back.


19. Self-possessed. He must know who he is and be comfortable in his own skin. Plus, he must accept who I am, and not want to change me or force any sort of religulosity on me. I am a heathen till the end. That probably comes as a shock to you.


20. Rockin'. Yeah, I said rockin'. He must rock my world with his awesomeness.

I'm sure I left out some other stuff that would be kinda nice to get all rolled up in this one package, but as it is, this is a tough list to ace for any guy. Oh wait . . . there IS one, ObiWon Kenobe . . .

Lookie there! It's Mr. Fine, people, by popular demand. Here's the one guy who passed the Deal Makers test. Of course, the jury is still out on whether he can two-step my ass around the dance floor . . .

Priceless

One highly anticipated trip to Phoenix to see your beloved sister who's also your BFF:
Sublime.

Taking along your new guy and exposing him to the family who knows a thousand incriminating factoids about you -- and they ain't afraid to use 'em:
Crazy.

Realizing your new guy won't hesitate to punk you in front of your own family -- WTF?
Priceless.

Some things money can't buy. For me, it's a boyfriend with an audacious sense of humor and the cojones to use it.