A  woman’s self-esteem, as it relates to her hair, cannot be understated. And when things go wrong, it’s akin to being stripped naked and paraded through a shopping mall on the eve of an unfortunately overdue Brazilian. (Thanks, Sandman, for bringing me that horrifying dream, you sick fuck!)

A hair disaster can bring on nothing short of social paranoia. The Aggrieved Unfortunate is convinced everyone is staring at her. (Writer speaking in the third person to protect her nearly pulverized psyche)  Even if they don’t know her and therefore couldn’t possibly know what her hair looked like pre Hair Apocalypse, she thinks they’re staring.

They are.

She feels it.

She cinches her hoodie tight around her fried noggin, her posture reduced to the slump of the publicly humiliated.

Not even her friends recognize her as she reveals the source of her shame. Their greetings, once warm and comforting, have been replaced with dismayed half-smiles of “Holy mother of God, what has she done?” and ever so slight recoils of disgust… as if getting too close might infect them with her hair-brained disease.  She gives them a cryptic warning. “Don’t bother with the hand sanitizer. It’s airborne. I caught if from breathing in some cockamamie idea I got from a hairstyle magazine that made me believe I wanted to look like Miley Cyrus.”

They stare a little harder.

“Yeah. Yeah. I know. If Andy Warhol and Tilda Swinton had a love child, it would have this hair color. I’m going to get it fixed on Saturday.”

And Saturday comes….

Alas, the fixing has failed.

And it’s worse than she could have imagined. Any trace of what remained of her erased…washed away in a diabolical brew of chemical color not found in nature or otherwise.

“Now you look Irish,” one helpful friend blurts out.

“It’s just not you,” another offers, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. (from a safe distance, of course)

“Then who the hell am I,” Andy-Tilda The Irishwoman cries. “Who? Who? Who??!!”

And thus begins the slow, agonizing process of rebuilding the woman she once recognized in the mirror as Herself.  She’s come to terms with it now. Every day a little better. Every therapy session one step closer to regaining the self-esteem she so cavalierly tossed away that fateful day.

Oh, what a price we pay for our mistakes, my sisters. Oh, what a price.





“You Might Get…Hairy”

A few years back, I travelled to Korea often on business. I started noticing that women there “of a certain age” seemed to all adopt the same look.  It was like every woman who was about the age I am now had the same curly-permed haircut and wore a blue windbreaker.   I didn’t give it much thought…until now.

First of all, I’m not terribly distressed over my age because I don’t feel like I’m as old as I am. BUT…my world is changing in subtle ways that I find fascinating.

Forgive me. That was a lie.  What I really mean is, it’s fucking irritating as hell!

For example, my doctor really, really wants me to have a colonoscopy all of a sudden. “Happy Birthday! We have a teenie, tiny, little camera with your name on it ready to be shoved up your bum along with the 400 other middle-aged folks we’ve got scheduled on the same day. Who knows? You may be the lucky winner of the Colon  ‘Sweep’stakes where we’ll feature your colonoscopy LIVE on YouTube!”

With all due respect to the Colon Paparazzi…..Please stop talking. I have bigger fish to fry.

Hormones…..An important component of my Avoid The Blue Windbreaker campaign.


Got your tests back. Good news! You’re not menopausal!


Oh. I guess I’ll have to be nicer, then. I thought there was a medical explanation.


You’re a bit low on HormoneX, though. 


Is that the one that dictates…temper?


Not exactly but I want to start you on a replacement regime just to be safe.


You mean, my safety or the safety of others?


There are potential side-effects.


Like stomach upset, dizziness, loss of appetite, high blood pressure, thoughts of suicide, risk of blindness, speech disorders, kidney failure, liver damage stroke, death?  You know, the usual stuff?


Hair. Four percent of women get hairy.


I have a really good waxer. 


You may experience increased aggression.


If I were any more aggressive, I’d be considered a virus. 


Easy peasy. We can fix that with other pills. 

Coming Soon:  Bone Density and Mood Swings: Are Happy California Cows The Answer?





“Say Hello To My Little Death-Ray”

It’s a fact. Wrinkles suck.

And I am vain. I am not ashamed to admit it.

But there is hope for the wrinkly:  lasers.  They come in may forms, these lasers.  Fraxels, Yags, CO2s, Titans, IPLs, Palomars, Pearls, Active Xs.   I don’t really care what they’re called, I just want them to work. So yesterday I chose one. It was called the Something-Something-Ultra.

Oh yeah! Ultra! Bring it on!

It went like this:

A lovely technician in a white coat slathered my face with some kind of special ultra-super-mega cream.


What’s with the primer?


It intensifies the laser.


Does it make the Ultra extra Ultra? Or does it make the Ultra Mega?


Please stop talking.


Okay, but—

She slapped some duct tape over my mouth, donned a hazmat suit and pulled out what looked like a ray gun and flipped the switch to On.   It sounded like the positron collider from Ghostbusters.  Her eyes  began to change, serpent-like, their eerie blue glow seared a hole in my psyche.

Hmmmm….I should have read the FAQs. I tried to mumble out a question but I just ended up sounding like Kenny from South Park and gave up.

I closed my eyes and thought of a calming mantra: A 25% reduction in fine lines. A 25% reduction in fine lines. A 25% redu—-

When I regained consciousness, I was sitting at the desk of an overly cheery receptionist who was grinning from ear to ear. She had little ceramic fairies all over her desk. She sees me eyeing them with disdain and giggles.


Aren’t they precious? I call them the Age Fairies. They’re our little laser clinic mascots.  Get it? Laser clinic Age Fairies?


I want to smash the holy fuck out of them.

My foul mood did nothing to damper her irritating sweetness. She leaned forward, peered over her desk and whispered in a baby voice.


So?  How are we feeling?

I gingerly touched my face to check for open wounds.


I don’t know about this “we” shit but I feel like a parboiled tomato.


How about an ice-pack?


How about an air-lift to a burn unit?


You’re so funny!  Melanie said you did just fine.


Melanie, huh?  That’s its name?  I hope Species in there doesn’t escape and mate with a human male or we’re all in deep shit. Do you take American Express?


Of course!









Ten Reasons I’ll Never Look Like Gwyneth Paltrow

There are more than ten reasons and all of them are obvious so I won’t bother.  What I will bother saying is that it’s starting to get disheartening these days when everything I read seems to want to convince me to try.

The other day I was getting my hair done. It’s torture but I have to do it in order to stay a natural blonde. The only redeeming quality to having products laced with chemicals that will certainly one day shrink my brain to the size of a chick pea slathered on my melon is that I get to sit quietly and read. In an attempt to boost my fledgling ego, my gal usually gets me the latest Who-Has-The-Most-Cellulite issue of US Magazine.  I am ashamed to say it makes me feel better to know that I share the bane of a dimpled ass with the likes of Reese Witherspoon.

Last time, however, it wasn’t US iMagazine that awaited me but rather something called New Beauty: The World’s Most Unique Beauty Magazine.  It was a “special edition”. Two hundred glorious pages of how to be all I can be.

It was enlightening, this New Beauty.

I will now share 10 Pearls of Wisdom gleaned from these hallowed pages for those still cowering in the dark recesses of Old Beauty.

1.  I can “look like I feel inside” [I didn’t realize that looking more dazed and confused than I already do is attractive but, hey, whatever works]

2.  How to identify when a wrinkle becomes a crease [When scotch-taping my neck skin to the back of my head stops working?]

3.  You can Unlock the Code to Visibly Younger Skin [Aha!  It really IS an ancient Chinese secret and it has nothing to do with clean shirts!]

4.  There exists a Powerful Combination That Delivers Flawless Skin [just be sure you have 220V power in your basement for the belt sander. It’s Step #1]

5.  How To Find Your Perfect Scent [Newsflash: it’s not Mitchum-for-Women-who-sweat-like-men deodorant which was my first guess]

6. is NOT a web-site where you can build your very own cyber-lover.

7.  There are selfless male medical professionals who have “spent their entire careers focused on facial aesthetics.” [I love you, man!]

8.  How to Fight Fat The Right Way [And I thought all I had to do was give up cheeseburgers and Doritos. Silly me!]

9.  There is an innovative new treatment that uses the “prey-paralyzing protein found in Temple Viper Venum” to fight those nasty crow’s feet [Note to self: get professional help dealing with my Ophidiophobia before use.]

10. I have many anesthesia options. [Phew! Biting down on that hickory branch was wearing out my teeth enamel]

But the learnin’ don’t stop there, beauty seekers!  There’s whole list of cool new terms and product names to learn and remember:

Thermo-active firming serum, idebenone, accelerated retinol SA, Effectiose, Retinaldehyde, eye-illuminating duo luminous, lutein-rich Environ Iozyme C-Quence, Vespera Bionic Serum, Optilight Essentials, peptides, pore-minimizers, pre-flight face defense, post-flight hydraters, and a bunch of other p-words with no vowels.

If you’re not into the chemical shit, here’s a list of really natural stuff [from all around the world if you’re into increasing your global consciousness] that cool products are made from:

Hibuscus, centella asiatic, knotweed, arctic cloudberry, gardenia, Himalayan raspberry root, Tibetan goji berry, Icealandic moss, mineral-rich Dead Sea algae, Mississippi River Mud pack, Three-Mile-Island-guess-you-didn’t-know-that-toxic-waste-was-good-for-you foaming face wash, and a whole host of other exciting things…and that was just in the first 50 pages!

I take back what I said.  Jules as Gwyneth may not a pipe dream after all.

Thanks New Beauty!








“I Was Told There’d Be Yams?”

It’s funny how age just kinda creeps up on you…like a serial killer…only you survive the attack and keep on living but in a strange altered state of continued physical metamorphosis.  One day you’re alive and vibrant, virtually wrinkle-free with a body temperature of a consistent, balmy 99.5 and then….life pulls a Dexter on your ass and suddenly you’re asking what the hell is wrong with my neck and wondering if it’s okay to strip off your t-shirt in the middle of a P.F. Changs.  It isn’t but you’ve reached the age where you just don’t give a shit about such things.

It’s a doubled-edged sword, really.

It’s freedom and captivity rolled into one gloriously heartbreaking scenario of “I’m wise and settled in my ways but I just can’t zip myself out of this roiling sea of change I call a body.” And by the way, do I care if that 35-year-old still thinks I’m hot?  Well….YES! damn it.

Yes, I do realize how pathetic that sounded.

Yet I cling to the humor of it all as do most of my friends even though one of them once told me she asked her skin doctor how to keep the wrinkles at bay and he told her to stop laughing. That was probably just before the sting of the Botox needle that would soon make her no-crow’s feet wish come true albeit at the price of never being able to register any kind of facial expression ever again.

I have started to worry that too much Botulism will cause my forehead to eventually drop over my eyes and obstruct my deteriorating vision and I’m already well into the bi-focal phase.  Ooops, I forgot. They call them “progressive lenses” now.  Sorry marketing folks.  I know you mean well but  your touchy-feely new term does not make me feel any better nor does it make me want to buy more glasses. You could claim that wearing “progressive lenses” will lift my ass back to pre-forty elevation  and I would still resent them.  I ran down three grocery carts and scraped my low-profile tire rims on ten miles of curb before I’d admit to needing them in the first place.  I lied to myself for months that the grocery carts were the same color as the parking lot surface and therefore invisible to everyone and that curbs had just gotten higher in the last few years…..

And kept on laughing.

Since running down shopping carts isn’t really funny,  I wonder if there’s something wrong with me.  You know…emotionally?  There are times when I’m in a place where laughter is unquestionably inappropriate, like a funeral and I feel the urge coming on.  It takes every ounce of energy to keep from snorting out a belly laugh in the middle of a poignant eulogy. I remember seeing an old Mary Tyler Moore episode where Mary had to stifle her overwhelming urge to laugh at the funeral of Chuckles The Clown. [I feel your pain, sister!]  That is hands-down the funniest television episode in history, in my opinion.

I try not to think about Chuckles too much, though. It could take a toll on my face.

Ah, the face.  The face, the face, the face.  How to deal with the face.

There are the needles filled with thick goo to puff out the lips. The belt sanders that promise skin like a baby’s butt.  The creams. The ray guns and lasers that all claim amazing results.  I’ve heard it said by more than one skin specialist that the only non-surgical remedy to wrinkles is Retin-A.  I’ve used it.  It makes my skin fall off in large sheets like the sides of glacier decimated by global warming.  Not to mention I could not go in the sun without being covered like a Bedouin unless I wanted my face to turn a perpetual shade of throbbing purple.

And then there’s the fat injections.


Injecting fat?

Doesn’t that fly in the face of everything we women are told by virtually every fashion magazine on earth which is to make the fat go away and strive to look more like Gisele Bundchen?  Yes, it does but there’s a way to put that excess fat to good use, I’m told, which may get us closer to that totally realistic, Gisele-like state.

Here’s how:

They “harvest” fat from your ass and inject it around your eyes.  It’s supposed to fill in those hollow spaces we get as facial fat disappears and sends our jowls into southward migration.

Harvest? I never thought of that word as it relates to body fat but according to Webster it is “a supply of anything gathered at maturity and stored.”  This all makes perfect sense to me now and thank the gods it also makes me laugh. (Just not too hard because I’ve heard that rambunctious laughter can sometimes cause women of a certain age to pee their pants so I don’t want to take any chances.)

I’m going to move on to a more pleasant subject like hormones since this fat harvesting / needles around the eye thing has me a little weak in the knees.

It’s probably about time for me to have one of those ever-popular-Suzanne-Somers-esque hormone panels done but my deathly fear of blood tests keeps me from it.  Besides, I don’t want to know if mood swings that turn me a bright shade of green and have me busting out of my clothes might be coming down the pike. A friend of mine said his wife went through this crazy werewolf cycle and all he saw when he came through the door for two long years was hair and teeth.   I do not want to know if I’ll become a werewolf or a vampire or any other kind of creature despite their popularity at the box office.

And what if, god forbid, I get news of an impending decrease in my libido..or worse… like the article I ran across on a medical web-site entitled “How Dry I Am” which needs no further explanation.  Good lord, is nothing sacred in this diabolical process?  Truth be told, I prefer to be blissfully ignorant about my Venusian hormones.  I will deal with the eruptions as they come rather than having my spirits crushed in advance because of some fortune-telling endocrinology.

I just want to keep laughing in the here and now, munching on yams and hoping for the best.  They’re the anti-menopause food, you know?

The reality is, I like it here in Middleville.  My sense of humor is anchored in bedrock. I’m happy and content. My husband still tolerates me, thank the gods. I can bitch with immunity and my car insurance has never been lower. I’m still fitting in my jeans despite an undercurrent of fear that I could become inexplicably drawn to the high-waisted variety from L.L. Bean at the drop of a hormonal hat.  No matter.  As of this writing, I still get the occasional double-glance from a thirty-something even though it might be because I have toilet paper clinging to my shoe… but whatever.  We all cling to something, right?

Right now, I’m clinging to the promise of yams.





I haven’t worn anything on my legs besides pants since 1990.  That is to say, no stockings, no panty hose, tights or other torturous forms of gam confinement.  I find it hard just typing the words so profound is my hatred of such things.

I didn’t think much about it until I was forced into having dinner at a very exclusive, very formal, very old money golf establishment.

My girlfriend told me there was a “blazer” rule.


“Women have to wear blazers”, she told me.

I did not believe her.  She, too, endured one of these invitations but hers was a lunch.

Lunch is different from dinner.  Maybe at lunch you had to wear a blazer but surely not for dinner.


I did not want to attend this dinner.

It means I have to pull out the St. John knit dress that is reserved for funerals or the like when I have to look respectable.  No cleavage.  No alluring features. Just a straight black and white knit dress albeit one with a hemline that sits well above the knee.  It was from a collection designed during Angelina Jolie’s tenure as spokesperson so it had to have at least one edgy feature. I suppose an above-the-knee hemline could technically be considered edgy for a brand like St. John.

The night of the dinner arrives.

I look appropriate.

I wear killer shoes which makes me feel better about the dress.

I am bare-legged as I have been since 1990.

I’m wearing eye-liner.

I am feeling okay.

We climb into the car.

We are halfway there.


A wave of panic sweeps over me and I can feel my face get hot.

“The tattoo”, I wail.

“Oh, bullshit. No one will even notice”, my husband assures me.  “You look fine”.

I believe him.

And we arrive.

The women all wear jackets of some sort.

(Note to self:  believe what your friends tell you.)

All conversation stops.

For a moment I feel like a terrier that’s been lured into a pack of coyotes.

All eyes migrate south and land on a tiny speck of real estate just above my right ankle as if it’s lit up in bright green neon.

Are these people just hard-wired to zero in on the unacceptable as soon as it walks in the door of their pristine environment?

It’s not an obnoxious tattoo.  It’s small. It is not satanic in nature.  It is a petite hieroglyph. A small expression of personality not nearly as gaudy as the massive diamond boulders that hang from the ring fingers of just about every blazer-wearing, blue-blooded female in this joint.

But it’s a tattoo none the less and it has no place here.

A few eyes linger on that little patch of controversy.

And it makes me want to get another one.

A Term Of Endearment?

What’s up with this whole “Cougar” thing?

Where the hell did that term come from?

Is there an equivalent moniker for men over 40 who date younger women?

Like….Typical Man Over 40? 

Is this the updated Helen Reddy version of female “empowerment?”  (God, I fucking HATE that word; not because of the word itself but because it’s been so over-exposed as psychobabble bullshit).

I looked up the lyrics to I Am Woman.

Oh, such insightful verses.

I am woman watch me grow
See me standing toe to toe
As I spread my lovin’ arms across the land
But I’m still an embryo
With a long, long way to go
Until I make my brother understand

Okay. I get it. I listened to it on some crackling FM radio station when I was young. I think I may have even liked it but that didn’t keep me from laughing my ass off when I looked it up today and found an ad for liposuction on the same page as the lyrics.  

Yes, we’ve come such a long, long way.

So, back to the Cougar question and what the hell it really means because I’m getting waaaay tired of seeing it everywhere.   

One web-site I found ( said Cougar’s are:

 “smart businesswomen, wives and mothers who have earned their stripes”.


Another one was way less attractive but they weren’t selling tickets to a convention in Vegas:

“Typically, cougars prey upon men almost young enough to be their sons”.

Prey upon? 

This description had me laughing even harder because it sounds like this new-age term actually has some significance and deserves an explanation, like, say…..Francophile. 

Here is how my simple brain works:

Older woman wants to bed younger man = doesn’t need a catchword.

Francophile, I get.  

It’s consistent.

It is without contradiction (at least not that I could find).

 It’s someone friendly or interested in all things French.  There are no opposing web-sites that claim Francophiles are actually freaks with an odd fascination with the sex lives of French midget, right? 

Not the case for Cougars.  They are at once predators AND prey. 

Once again, women get the short end of the sexual stick (no pun intended since there are so many wonderful male enhancement products available today which leaves NO room for excuses.)

But The Creator (or whoever runs this crazy asylum) is a comedian because men reach their sexual peak at, like, 12 and women don’t reach it until…well, I guess until they are so desperate for good sex they’ll turn into stalkers or so the web-sites say thus making the business of sex a veritable mosh pit of gender imbalance.  Some will survive; some will be trampled.  But in the end, we’ll all somehow destroy each other.

I wonder if this is what happened to the Mayans?

Nah!  I think they were just shitty farmers.

Okay…since I’m a believer in grassroots change, here are my suggestions to help bring balance to The Great Cougar Debate: 

  1. Ladies, sleep with whoever you want so long as it’s legal.
  2. Avoid assuaging your morning-after guilt by attending a please-validate-me Cougar convention in Vegas.
  3. If you want to cut loose and go all Roman Orgy once in a while, there are discreet places for that (not that I know first hand, of course, but I read a lot…) and no one will write an article about you in the local paper like the one I just read by a young reporter attending a Cougar convention at a dive bar in Santa Cruz.
  4. Try not to make total asses of yourselves by getting drunk and grinding your faces into the crotches of visiting Irish footballers in front of God and everybody at a dive bar in Santa Cruz because it makes you look like an idiots(see above).
  5. Do not Google the word Cougar……

…..unless of course, you’re looking for good blog material.

Next up:   MILF and the Oedipus Complex: A Modern Day Comparison

The Discovery

Sometimes I buy things on-line that shouldn’t be bought on-line.

Like desk chairs.

Big mistake.

This one required assembly and I do not possess good assembly skills.

It was also too big and I kept whacking my toes on it because it stuck out from the desk too far and nothing pisses me off more than fucking up a fresh pedicure so something had to give.

Said chair now resides at a re-sale shop associated with a very worthy and distinguished charitable organization that, hopefully, is not frequented by buyers who don’t like fucking up their pedicures. 

Perhaps a nice man will buy this otherwise perfectly fine desk chair.   I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the Ragin’ Cajun polish chips embedded in the chair’s wheels.

After I wrestled this behemoth out of the back of my car and wheeled it in to my friends who volunteer there, I took a load off and had a chat during which time another generous lady dropped off a dusty, vintage box that contained something that looked like a vibrating grenade. 

Fortunately, it wasn’t a grenade because I don’t think they take grenades as a rule just like another shall-remain-nameless resale shop wouldn’t take the baby gate I tried to unload on them because they don’t take anything “that protects babies”.  They did not seem at all bothered by the dry-cleaning plastic that covered a coat I was donating.  I hope somebody with a baby doesn’t get that plastic wrapped coat since baby safety is not a priority with this shall-remain-nameless resale shop.

The vibrating grenade turned out to be a Stimu-Lax machine.  Now, to me, anything that contains the word “lax” conjures images of something that wouldn’t necessarily be the size of a grenade so said vintage box required a closer look.

The Stimu-Lax was a hand held vibrator from probably the late 50s or early 60s thus the vintage packing.  The woman who dropped it off cheerfully told us that she used it all the time when she was a kid.

Uh  huh. 

After she left, we opened it. 

Inside we found a pocket-sized paperback.  A national bestseller called How to Make Love to a Man by Alexandra Penney.  It was bright pink with a pair of lipstick lips on the front of it. 

It was “The sexiest book of the year” according to Self Magazine.

Naturally, I sharked the book since a blog opportunity of this magnitude does not come along often.  After all, a totally fine desk chair was a fair trade for a 25 cent book and there was no way in bloody hell I was leaving that store without that book.

I mean, come on! An entire book devoted to making women feel like sexual idiots?  I was in h.e.a.v.e.n.  I tore into it with the enthusiasm of a little boy with a book of matches and a can of flammable liquid.  I hadn’t been this excited since I found a travel-sized dildo in a Gucci purse my friend wanted to put on E-bay.  She was quite happy to be reunited with it, by the by.

But I digress.

The book was better than I thought.  I was on ridicule overload.  I think I actually had a spontaneous orgasm when I read the chapter headings:

Beating the Jitters (Funny. But it would have been funnier if it was Beating Off the Jitters don’t you think?)

Giving Yourself Permission(To use the Stimu-lax?)

Oral Sex Step-by-Step (There’s actually a learning curve?)

Gee, I had no idea that “learning oral sex is a little like learning to swim” and that “…in swimming, you’ve got to remember your breathing” (as opposed to holding your breath until you pass out which is always a mood killer).  Thanks, sex book!  You’ve saved my husband some future 911 calls!

Here’s the kicker….

Just before I absconded with the sex book, another lady of similar age spotted the Stimu-Lax .  “Oh, I used to play with one of those when I was a kid.” 

Uh huh.

The Taming Of The Shoes

My sister has a thing about shoes.

Or more specifically….shoe.

 I use the singular since I have profound  memories of seeing a variety of lone shoes in odd places in her house; odd places that a single shoe would not normally be found.

Say….the kitchen.

Or the bathtub.

You know what I’m talking about, Sister Sledge.

During this last visit, though, single shoes were more….ubiquitous. 

It made me more paranoid than usual.

Keep in mind that I’m no stranger to the unusual – like Dad’s box of miscellaneous rubber and Ho trains and a macabre hamster autopsy performed when aforementioned sister fed it too much Captain Crunch – but this shoe thing has turned into something more troubling.

You see, dear sister,  I recently lost one shoe and it taunts my psyche every time I see its lonely mate.  I can’t bring myself to get rid of it.  Like it’s waiting for the return of its partner.  I’ve even considered getting one of those MIA stickers to put on the window of my car in memory of this fallen soldier.  I’ve discarded that notion for obvious reasons of respect.

But, woe is me, I have become a tortured soul.   I NEVER lose anything, damn it!  You know that!

Oh, help me come to terms with this, my sister.  How do you do it?  How do you cope?  Where do you get your strength? And you persevere…almost happy…smiling through the pain.


Smiling through the pain?

Somethin’ ain’t right.

Could it be…..

Nah, forget it.

It couldn’t be.  You wouldn’t do that.

Would you?  

Torture the OCD sister who never loses anything? 

Are you purposely leaving grim reminders of my shoe misfortune to taunt me?

Is that why you were wearing that silly grin the whole time I was there? 

I thought that was your I’m-so-happy-you’re-here-I-can’t-hold-it-in smile.

But it was really your I’m-punking-you-dumb-ass-and-you-don’t-even-know-it smile.

Fine.  No problemo, Juanita.

First the tadpoles on the kitchen counter (I made toast with my eyes closed), then the carnivorous chickens (I keep my arms at my sides now when I walk by the cage to prevent dismemberment) and now this. 

Not funny.  Not funny at all.

I can take a hint.  Next time it’s the Holidome.  THEY have an indoor pool AND an amphibian-free continental breakfast.

Take that, sibling rival!

Danger: Water In Pool

I get really, really sick of women’s magazines. 

I resent the notion that  women need to be instructed on what men want in bed or how to lose 10 pounds  of belly fat in one weekend.  I’m quite certain I’ve ranted about this before so I won’t be redundant.

Instead, I’ll espouse the benefits of Esquire Magazine.   It’s sort of a kinder, gentler version of Maxim which is all about hot chicks and the men who love them, fast cars and other stuff that men dig.   Most of the articles about women and sex center around women TELLING men what they love to do rather than some sort of instructional bullshit designed to make women feel they don’t know shit from shinola in the sack which is common practice in the pages of women’s magazines.  I prefer the Maxim philosophy but that’s just me.

Esquire is where I was turned on to a funny but simple web-site:

It’s not deep or profound or philosophical. Just funny. It’s kind of like that Jay Leno segment where they read misguided newspaper headlines, advertisements and comical misprints.  It’s worth a visit if you want a chuckle.  This is where I found the picture of a sign on a chain link fence warning  about water in pool along with a newspaper headline that reads:  Homicide Victims Rarely Talk To Police.  

The closest thing I found to male angst in Esquire was by a British guy (got the UK version) who couldn’t decide whether to shave off his beard because he had a double chin.  I read it.  I laughed.  It was supposed to be funny.  Because angst is often funny and men seem to have a much better way of handling angst then women and aren’t afraid to exploit it in print.  I find this refreshing.

Where women’s magazines direct their readers to sites about colon cleansing for weight loss and lame blogs about sex and the single guy, Esquire directs its readers here:

It’s much more entertaining.