Camel Toe as a fashion statement? Not the point.

Shocking. Not a word I'd use to describe myself. Quirky is a better choice. But to some, I suppose, most of my quirks are just that.

For example, my friends were horrified when I mentioned during a girls get-together that I oftentimes went "commando". The collective looks of disgust on their faces were as if I had just admitted that I like the smell of my own sweaty armpits. (Which I kinda do, not because I like the smell of normal sweat, 'cause I don't. But for some unknown reason my sweat smells sort of pretty and sweet.)

ANYWAY, I tried very earnestly to explain why going sans underwear felt so wonderful, and why they might want to give it a try. No bunching, no adjusting, no riding in any crack, nothing showing while wearing low rise jeans. None of my reasons could sway them. Instead, I was instructed to purchase proper fitting underwear to avoid all those unpleasantries. For the rest of the night, I felt all eyes on my crotch, expecting to see constant camel toe. That is certainly NOT the look I'm going for.

Who sees medals? My eyes go directly to what seem to be
the biggest and most uncomfortable wookie wedgies ever.

In fact, I'd never commando wearing leggings or yoga pants or any style pant that would give me wagon wheels. Not only does it look ridiculous, but a cooch crammed with fabric is far more irritating than the butt floss you experience thonging. It's an easy trade-off, in my humble opinion.

What I couldn't bring myself to admit publicly was that the BEST commando experience is when you are wearing a skirt or dress and nothing else until you get down to your shoes. I'm pretty sure I would have needed to administer smelling salts after THAT confession.

It's fun to feel so free down there in public. A naughty kind of fun. And I swear my snatch is smiling, enjoying the absence of all restrictions, the chance to breathe and feel the soft breeze of fresh air, like a caged animal finally released from captivity. Refreshingly primal and right. And it usually leads to spontaneous hot sex, which is always a plus.

So ladies, I command you! Next steamy summer night, slip on a soft, silky dress and some strappy heels. Keep open the gate to the love tunnel. You may be shocked at how naturally good it feels.

Hungry And Horny - If It Were Only That Simple

You've probably heard this joke about a man's only two emotions. It's a good one. I don't look at it as man-bashing. You have to admit it's a great feeling to eat and feel satisfied, and yea, feeling horny feels hornirific. (Although I'd hate to have an erection. To me, it always looks somewhat painful, all that skin stretching. Plus I can't imagine some appendage of my body sans bone, such as an earlobe or my tongue, becoming rock hard. It just seems awkward and again, painful. But I digress.)

Men are pretty simple creatures. I say that since I am a woman and women don't understand men and vice versa. But I have to say, from an emotional standpoint, I am quite jealous of them. I wish I could bury the worry that clings to me like a persistent migraine. I truly hate being emotional. It fucks me up in so many ways.

I have a girl and a boy. The girl is sensitive, caring to a fault, thoughtful and selfless and sweet. The boy is also very sweet, when he gets his way.

We can't change the way we are, but we can try to change the way we handle things. I think to get what I want, to be happier, I have to be less emotional and more demanding. I have to grow a penis, as icky as that sounds. And I have to stop saying things like "icky".

Wish me luck.

Dating In The New Millenium. Mr. Write Seeks Miss Match

I have a friend that I'll call Steve. A divorced 40-something editor who tells me stories of his latest hobby, dating women he's met through online dating sites. Since this new realm of reality is something so foreign and fascinating to me, I sort of live vicariously through hearing his tales. How he strives to create the perfect profile, switching it up every now and then. Getting constant alerts, winks and messages from potential spit swappers. Can you imagine the ego boost from all that constant affirmation? He admits it's addicting. It's no wonder every time I'm in his company he does little more than check his phone and text.  He says he averages about 4 dates a week. And although there hasn't been a love connection so far, I know he's one happy puppy. With a shitload of chew toys.

A funny yet annoying component, he reports, is how all women write basically the same thing in their profiles. Universally, it seems, women love four things. (Well, aside from their AMAZING kids.) TRAVELING, THEIR PETS, THE BEACH AND LOCAL SPORTS TEAMS. Come on, I countered. Could it be? He dared me to log on anonymously and check out the profiles. Which I did. And yes, he was absolutely right! It's as if a united female front is on a mission to send a strong message. Hey, Mr. Right!  Sweep me away on a flight to sunny Florida in March, Fido in tow, to watch my boys of summer in spring training. The reality date is more like sitting in Yancy's Bar, where it always smells like a litter box, sipping a lousy margarita and eating hot wings next to a guy in a Flyers jersey.

Then there's the "what women write versus what men hear." Steve claims you can easily read between the lines of "describe yourself" and identify important potential personality pitfalls. Such as ...

"Honesty is important to me ..."  =  "My ex cheated on me."
(And by the way, honesty is important? Isn't that like saying oxygen is important? Or do some people dig dishonesty? Yea, lie to me as much as possible. It's confusingly cool.) 

"Read my entire profile before you contact me! I'll do the same for you!!! I am a big personality!!! My friends say I have lots of energy and a zest for life....blah blah blah"  =  Extremely high maintenance. And maybe even more frightening, she uses multiple exclamation points. A definite red flag.

"I'm laid back and easy going..."  =  Extremely low maintenance. Caution. The redundancy tips her into the "boring as hell" category.

"I love to travel as much as possible."  =  "I'm going to cost you a LOT of money."

"I want an outgoing, happy, secure man who wants to be my best friend."  =  Good luck with that.
(Fifty bucks says she loves unicorns.)

"Looking for a hard working man ..."  =  her last boyfriend was a deadbeat.

"I want to take it slow."  =  No sex. Ever.

"I prefer red wine to white, dogs to cats, spring to summer and sunrises to sunsets."  =  Kill me now.
(That was Steve's reaction to what I thought was a sweet attempt at being creative. Although he also said that her pic was hot, so he would contact her. Huh? Go figure. It must be a guy thing that I obviously don't get.)

"I'm an attractive ..."  =  disregard her picture. It's not recent and she's not that attractive anymore. His theory is that if you were really that attractive, you wouldn't have to say it.

Steve told me he wishes women would stop writing like they were talking to their girlfriend and instead, write as if they were talking to a guy.  I wondered how the landscape might change if that were the case. Would a guy hearing things straight from the hip be in any way intimidated? Create a sour stomach before the tasting begins? Are those playing the mating game better off using sound bites rather than reality bites?  I can't help but wonder how many hits something like this would get:

"A bad kisser is a deal breaker. Looking for a guy with a gorgeous set of lips who knows how to use them. In the sack, you don't have to be a nice guy, but I'd prefer you finish last. I too love the beach and want you there with me, essentially to carry the umbrella, cooler and chairs. And to apply sunscreen on my back. Lots of loving attention makes me happy. So does being by myself sometimes. I'm confusing as hell. I'm sure you are, too. So we cancel each other out. Call me crazy, but the guy who picks up after himself is way hotter than the guy who picks up the check. And probably better in bed.  I want someone who doesn't pick his nose in public. Who picks me above all others. And what you give is what I give back. Give it to me, baby. I'm Rick James, bitch."

Click here for Rick James, bitch!


The old school funk was a bit of a digression, but it brought me back to a time when meeting someone was not like ordering from a menu. It meant maybe the club scene, or at a bar at last call slow dancing with a stranger, exchanging phone numbers on a cocktail napkin or a pack of matches, or simply being somewhere noticing someone noticing you.

As for Steve and his chances for meeting his Miss Match soulmate, no one knows for sure. Even with technology bringing so many options to the table, the dating game itself hasn't really changed.  I say, fuck it. Have fun with it. If you're going to play, be all in. You have the cards that you were dealt. Now let them fall where they may.


(Inspo for this post came from a brilliant comedic writer I know. I hope Steve doesn't mind.)

Married blonde looks for dick.

Spam email amuses me. The subject lines certainly get my attention. For a nanosecond. Sort of like the way "fuck" written in Sharpie pen on the restroom stall does. Who opens this stuff? I am certain that spammers do not have someone like me in mind when they are creating subject titles. The majority of these fine bits of prose relate to penis enlargement, so I'd have to wager a guess that men are the target audience.

I want that job. It would be fun and challenging! Thinking up short, stupid phrases to entice libidinous, easily persuadable or otherwise bored numskulls to click onto my link and purchase whatever bogus crap I have waiting there. Better yet, I'd like a way to respond to these messages. For no other reason than to amuse myself. I seem to do a lot of that lately!

Let's see what my spam folder has for me today ...

Married blonde looks for dick ....
I just saw him recently on New Year's Rockin' Eve. He's alive and well, sort of.

Wife strips and looks for dates ...
Now, see ... I do it the other way around. I find the dates, usually in the produce section. THEN I strip.
If you walk in naked they call the cops right away and you can forget about the dates. And who wants that? Really.

Fuckbook for Casual Encounters ...

Would be a nice addition to my library, standing along side of Cookbook for Casual Dinners.

Enhance your organ ...
Like Liberace did? With candelabras and glitter? Oh wait, that was a piano. Never mind.

MILF spreads legs for dates ...
Geez, imagine what she'll do for kumquats.

Want sum hung long for you? ...
Uhhhh .... yes, to go, with a side of pork fried rice and steamed dumplings.

Senior Dating and Videos ... Chat Now
I have two words for that one ... BITE ME!

Now go ahead and have yourself a spam-free day :)

Nights of Blues

Someone said to me, close your eyes and think of your favorite childhood Christmas memory. Mine is blue lights.

On our street, almost everyone put up Christmas lights. The older folks displayed electric candles with orange bulbs and sometimes twinkle lights in a window or two. But the homes with kids were outlined in those thick outdoor bulbs. Excitement grew as each night, a new house was illuminated. As the big day grew closer, the nights became brighter and more colorful.

My father had strands and strands of multicolored, socketed bulbs that he kept in cardboard boxes in the storage space above the garage. Every year, he'd take it all down and inspect the cords and plugs and bulbs. He'd test the lines to see which bulbs needed replacement. Then he'd position the ladder and begin. It was quite an undertaking which took hours.

It was this one December that stands out to me above all others. The whole family was driving around one night, admiring the house lights on other streets. I thought about how ours could be different this year.

"Hey dad, can we do all blue?"

All blue. Everyone liked the idea. Yea, that would be cool! All blue! was the general response.

"All blue," replied my father, his voice flat and unemotional. But I was hopeful. At least it wasn't a flat-out no. Or worse, "We'll see." Which is a parent's cruel, implied no.

A few nights later, our house glowed a groovy, eye-catching, mellow, mysterious blue. The deepest ocean within a sea of bright life.

 I can still see it now, eyes closed. I'll never forget it.

Merry Christmas. May what you love deep down within be your light.

Things I Just Don't Get

Minivans
Or as I like to call them, mommyvans. Mommies who can't judge the size of their vehicle vans. Next mommyvan you see, I'll bet you'll notice a long scrap along the side of it, one of the rear view mirrors will be damaged, or the bumper will have some sort of dent. And inside, complete disaster. The plastic innards of a McDonald's Playland tube slide is like a sanitized surgical scalpel compared to the shit storm happening inside the cavity of a mommyvan. Style-less, over-sized chaos.


North Face Jackets.
They are everywhere. In line at ShopNBag the other day, four out of the six people within ten feet of me were sporting that dingy, looks-like-it's-been-over-washed, black, fleecy, no collar, zippered, expensive, ugly jacket. Including the cashier.  It was like being amidst mindless, trendy fashion cult members. Puzzling, and creepy.

The Oversaturation of Adele.
Hey, I sort of like that title. Sounds like a Barnes and Noble "staff pick". Anyway, yes, she is an extremely talented singer and songwriter but gee whiz, why can't the airwaves give it a rest? Please? For at least a few hours? No Adele? Please? I'm tired of switching stations already.

The Karfuckingdashians.
Who gives a flying fuck? Apparently, almost everyone except me. I don't know much about them other than there is a bunch of females who all sort of look the same, the father is the used-to-be famous Olympic runner Bruce Jenner, something involving a porno, and somehow they are all over the place. Something about sisters? Who the fuck knows. All I know is, it pisses me off that every time I turn around, there is a Karfuckingdashian in my face. (Can you tell, when I am overly irritated, I say fuck a lot?) And if you ask me, that guy that one of them married for 15 minutes looks like Shrek.

The Latest Catchphrases

It must be me. I tried it. I tried sounding current by throwing a few My Bads and Just Sayins around. To my ears, I sound retarded. When I hear My Bad, Epic Fail, Uber anything and Just Sayin, it's like nails on a chalkboard. Now there's an expression I like.

Holiday Letters

It's that time of year again. Time to open wide to take what I call my December dose of Syrup of Ipecac, otherwise known as the Holiday Letter. You know, those delightful year-end recaps cleverly crafted to boast shamelessly while still sounding sincerely grateful and humbled by life's good fortune. The ones I get, however, are not so subtle. They simply scream "our shit doesn't stink."  I read them and I wonder, do you hear yourself? Here's an excerpt ...

"Our Jennifer continues to work at (insert name of well-known wealth management company here) and is now Assistant Vice President and Marketing Coordinator for the United Emirates market. She has ambitious goals of competing in the blah blah blah triathlon with Team SaveALife. She continues to volunteer with various not-for-profit organizations such as blah blah blah and she is now President of the blah blah blah Alumni Association of (insert Ivy League University name here). Her fiance, David, also a graduate of (insert name of Ivy League University again), has entered his second year of law school at (yet another Ivy League university) and spends a majority of his free time as a volunteer firefighter, where he has recently been promoted to Lieutenant."

This particular author/mom writes in the third person, which also baffles me. The section on her goes like this ...

"Mary is still an extraordinary minister at church and recently joined (name of club which infers she combines regular exercise WITH volunteer work) and plans to donate one of her kidneys to a random homeless person within the next year."

And it goes on and on and on. Okay, I made up the part about the organ gifting, but that wouldn't surprise me. 

... That's it for now, friends. What don't you get? I'd love to compare notes.

Truth Be Told ...

There is a lot for which to be thankful.

Like recently, I learned that the average person's total skin covering would weigh about 6 pounds if collected in one mass. This bit of trivia made me thankful for how easy it is to share information, to learn something new every day. It also reminds me of how much I love my own skin. I've got great skin. It's incredibly soft. Like a six pound stick of butter.

I'm thankful that Cutie Pie the hamster kicked the proverbial bucket, 'cause I was getting REAL tired of taking care of that thing.

I'd like to personally thank whoever invented the nail clipper. Hangnails drive me insane. The faster I can eliminate them, the better. I keep a clipper in my purse, one in my car, one in every coat pocket, and several in drawers around my house. Cause you never know with hangnails. They are sneaky SOBs. Nail-Clipper-Inventor, you rock!

I'm thoroughly grateful for The Academy. I'm not sure who they are or what they do, but it seems like they always get thanked. And that must mean something.

I'm thankful for sex toys. Enough said there. I know you all have images in your head right now. Those will suffice. If not, youjizz is a click away.

In that vein, thank you to my yoga instructor for his slammin' body. Damn, he looks good. And gives good yoga. When I am sitting in my forward bend and he lays that hard chest on my back and gently leans into me to deepen the stretch, while whispering in my ear "breathe" ... wow.
I have a feeling he's gay, though.

Burnt toast. I'm thankful for one of the very few mistakes that you can legitimately blame on someone else. Why on earth would a toaster have a setting that is way too high for the product which it is supposed to warm to a golden brown? Whoever engineered that feature fucked up. And we pay for it. Go figure.

Heat. Anything heated or hot. Heated car seats, heated floors, saunas, hot tubs, the oven, the sun, jalapenos, hot toddies, hot water bottles, skin on skin under flannel sheets and a down comforter, fire. Anything that makes me sweat. Bring it on. Thermostat on 73 in the winter and minimal A/C in the summer. I am forever grateful for whatever warms my bones. Cold? It's ho-hum at best. Unless it's a cold beer on a hot day.

My allergy to cats and dogs. It's a great excuse for when my kids plead with me to get one. And to use as an out when I'm invited to house parties that I know will be a drag. Oh, I'd love to come! But wait, do you have any pets? (Odds are on my side.)

I'm most thankful for my husband, who loves me despite all of the above.

Happy Turkey Day!