October 30, 2009


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. Heh.

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.

October 28, 2009


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.

First off, this “shaper” on the hanger looks like a body bandage for a two-year-old, though the tag said it was LARGE. It fits me from boobage to mid thighs. I did look stylin’ in my sweater dress, and I wore the ensemble, including black bootery, all day. However, a lot of tugging occurred, as my Lycra contraption rolled up from the bottom and 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. And may I say, an elastic band under the boobcage gives you a real appreciation for rodeo broncs, all cinched up while they buck around the arena. Still, I survived my discomfort for the sake of looking HAWT.

Later that evening, in my closet, I tried to take off the Spanx. You might think:  "easy peasy." But you would be wrong. Perhaps it was the route I took. The over-the-head route. I had grabbed the hem and pulled it all the way up, over my head, at which point I realized, with my arms pinned across my chest, elbows akimbo, and Lycra stretched as taut as a Bay Bridge cable, I had effectively strait-jacketed myself. That's because wearing Spanx is like stuffing yourself into an elf’s condom. Unless you can shrivel up on demand, you're a captive little fucker.

So I stumbled around my closet, in a wrestling match with my Spanx, and gave myself a full nelson. Extremely disoriented, I tripped over my boots and flailed around on the floor. I paused in my hapless exertion to enjoy a moment of debilitating terror, wherein I imagined I might die and no one would find me till the next day when my putrefying scent would overpower the catbox. That, or being so tightly encased, if the thing hardened, I might actually emerge with wings and a penchant for light bulbs.

Fifteen minutes later, I managed a Houdini-esque escape by dislocating both shoulders and using my rabid spittle as a lube. I staggered to the shower, exhausted, out of breath, my hair electrified, and I stood under the water in a dazelike Goldie Hawn in Overboard after her nightmare with a chainsaw. Buh, buh, buh, buh.

Tragically, my cat Matilda saw the whole thing. Next morning, she hunkered down and growled as I waved the spanx in her face in an effort to desensitize her. When I left her, she was mumbling incoherently about throwing herself in front of a car.

Heed my warnings, people. Spanx should be worn at your own risk. I’m in recovery now, wearing slacks too sizes too big and a bulky sweater that leaves me shapeless. Ramping up for:  Spanx vs. Me, Round 2.

October 26, 2009

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.


October 23, 2009

Wee Wisdom #6

Miss America’s Poignant Pearl of the Week:

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

October 21, 2009

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. Unless he's Mr. Perfect. You out there, dude?

October 19, 2009

WTF Wednesday: Butt Hole What?

If you haven't already heard, let me be the first to break it to you. Somebody in Conisbrough, South Yorkshire, England, a very long time ago named one of their streets Butt Hole Road. I kid you not. Cheeky, eh? According to Wikipedia, the name is thought to be referring to a container for holding water, a water butt. In the U.S., we call them rain barrels. Not nearly so funny. Why can't we be more like the Brits?

Apparently, families living on Butt Hole Road didn't think it was funny after facing problems getting their deliveries because the delivery companies thought it was a hoax. Being the butt of all the jokes isn't easy. Then those crazy tourists showed up, exposing themselves while standing next to the road sign -- totally tawdry and disgusting, wouldn't you agree?

And it was hard for the people who lived there to tell anyone their address. Can't you hear the conversations?

~ I live at 1313 buttholeroad.
~ I'm sorry, sir, can you spell that?
~ Do I have to?
~ Sir, do you want your package?
~ (sigh) B-U-T-T . . . H-O-L-E . . R-O-A-D.
~ BWAAAHHH-ha-ha-ha-ha!
~ (sigh)
So here's a picture of me back in 2003, in front of the Butt Hole Road sign. I'm sitting on the pavement, and, well, I'm naked. I'm not showing you the naked butt part. But this is truly a moment in time I'll never forget. And neither will the residents of Butt Hole Road. Right guys? Tell the truth. But don't tell my mum, eh?

Sorry, Robert Earl Keen, the road doesn't go on forever, and the party sometimes ends. Cuz the residents of Butt Hole Road got their wish and changed their street name to [ta da!] Archer Way, since it's just down the way from a 930-year-old castle.

I know!


October 15, 2009


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

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:

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

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

October 5, 2009

Ahead of My Time

This is me at 17, just before my high school graduation ceremony. Note the exquisite babydoll dress, which I made myself, because I was crafty once upon a time.

Of course, my mother may have supervised and she may have cussed her way through the harder parts, since the fabric was slick as gooseshit (beloved family expression) and didn’t cooperate, and sometimes even the voice of experience struggles to make the magic happen. Ten years were shaved off my mother’s life after the thrill of sewing with satin and silk (plus her voice of experience said something about not being able to stand seeing me in that "fucking thing" afterwards), but then she quit smoking and added a few years back on, so odds are she will still be around to drop it like it's hot on the front porch with me. Right, Ma?

Notice also the length of the exquisite babydoll dress. In a super mini, if you bend over even just a little, the mystery is over. Indisputable fact. No, I’m not namin’ names of those suddenly in the know (like Heathen). But it was 1973. Minis were all the rage and we didn't give a shit about mystery (unless we're talkin' Kolchak in the Nightstalker), especially if it had anything to do with Watergate or Deep Throat. Plus, we could only laugh at every mention of Deep Throat, cuz maturity was for nerds. But just so that history won’t repeat itself, I should inform the modern masses: if you have to drone on and on that you are not a crook? You are one.

Note also the blue eye shadow and the long, wavy hair. Was I rockin’ it or what? Well, except for the pantyhose. I guess you saw the sheen on my thighs? Pantyhose has thankfully gone the way of the 8-track player (although who didn’t love the Doobie Brothers singing China Grove or Jesus is Just Alright on 8-track? Bitchin, man!). But let the record show, I’m Xtremely distraught that after all this time no substitution for pantyhose has been invented. In cold weather, what woman wants to go out bare legged, especially in a mini? People, we can send a freakin' multi-billion-dollar camera to Saturn's rings, but we can't come up with a workable alternative to hosiery? Pathetic.

All this to say, fads go around and then roll back around when designers can say, "Hey, look, something totally never done before!" Babydolls, minis, rainbow eye shadows, wavy hair, and platform shoes (no you can't see them, but they're there!) – all back in vogue. I was so freakin' ahead of my time back then.

October 1, 2009

The Sag Zone

I just turned f-f-f-fifty-four. Thirty years ago, I looked at my current age as far off in the future, in a land far, far away where gravity was of infinitesimal consequence. Time was something alien and against my primal mantra of I am young, I am invincible, I am the skinny girl with perky breasts. In fact, I thought getting this age only happened to other people, like my parents and ex-presidents and despicable bosses who deserved it. But not me. No, this number does not fit me.

Of course, there are signs that things aren't what they used to be. Where the firm muscles of my arms, torso, hips, and thighs used to broadcast my youthful vitality and catch-worthiness, I am now faced with the voice of Rod Serling, broadcasting that I have crossed over into . . . The Sag Zone. (If you're not old enough to remember Rod Serling, screw you.) The fast-firing synapses of my brain, which once kept my cranial performance and databanks in peak condition so that I could leap complex problems in a single bound and photographically recall who said what about whom and in what tone during a late-night drinking binge and still recall the details three months later, had vaccinated me against making such statements as:

  • It's past my bedtime;
  • Just one more and then cut me off; or
  • But you don't even know him!
These days as I prepare to speak, my measureless experiences crowd into my frontal lobe, jockeying for position to blast off my tongue first. Pick me, pick me, they clamor. And I reply tacitly, First come, first served. One thought breaks through the throng and lines up on the launching pad that is my tongue. It's coming . . . it's coming . . . Wait for it. It's . . . it's . . . gone. I am flustered and humbled by the ever-insidious brain fart.

Or not. See, it's common practice to call it a brain fart, but it's really this: I am so inundated with broad-spectrum knowledge that my advanced intellectual facilities are nearing capacity. Without a back door to push out the inconsequential and traumatic (which prevents us from witnessing excess brain seepage from our geriatrics' ears), I am forced to zip-drive the trivia into a warehouse somewhere around my hippocampus where its retrieval could take days—even weeks—much like rummaging through attic boxes for one's first shooting-the-bird photo. (Yes, I started early, but in my defense, I'd been mimicking my father.)

Now where was I? Oh yes. For me, it's all about the number. When you say you're over fifty, people regard you with a piteous gaze. They try to assuage your assumed bruised ego with commentary like: But you look so much younger! Well, at least I can be thankful for good manners. If only this could be said of one's family. When mine became aware of my fiftieth birthday, it was like I had a big, waxy Number Fifty birthday candle melting all over my head, flaming everyone with the inside information that I had reached a cultural milestone. At forty, I got those black Over the Hill balloons and greeting cards depicting my nipples dangling around my ankles. That was child's play compared to the ridicule I endured my fiftieth year as the recipient of a wall-to-wall Grim Reaper banner.

I guess it might have been easier to accept my age gracefully if I hadn't been throwing myself on the ground, kicking and screaming; but I had just realized I would now be required to check off the 50-65 age box on the forms in my doctor's office—or worse, the 50+ box, a group encompassing me and all those on the cusp of fossilization.

Fifty is the new forty (or thirty!), some say. In fact, this decade is a huge disconnect between who I am, what I look like, and how I process fiber. I feel the same as I did at 29. No, I'm not kidding. The biggest difference is that I'm smarter. People, I regularly wax wisdom all over the place, as you know. I just have trouble remembering . . . uh, wait. What was I saying?

Oh yes. My age cannot possibly reveal the person I am, inside or out. The numbers do sometimes lie, or at least mislead. I'm still fun and fabulous, vibrant and vital, sexy and sentient. After all, I'm only f-f-f-fifty-four.