VANILLA, BDSM, WHO CARES?

cage/whip

I finally started a new novel. It’s an erotic romance, which is a complete departure from the 2 romantic comedies I have written. But my muse writes the story. I find I have very little control over which way it goes.

Unfortunately, the writing has been very slow going because the muse has chosen to add certain facets to the story I am completely unfamiliar with, resulting in me having to do a crapload of research. One of my heroes is an artist, another is a pediatric neurosurgeon. My heroine owns horses. She teaches Gothic architecture at a college. I know of none of this stuff. Write what you know, they say. There’s a reason for that. You get your book written in half the time.

But my muse is stubborn and her ideas are firm. She wants elements of BDSM. I groaned when she first informed me of this. “No, no, no, there are enough Fifty Shades of Grey knockoffs, for goodness sake,” I complained. But the bitch wants what she wants.

Now, researching the BDSM lifestyle is interesting because it has obviously exploded since the 3 Fifty books came out. I understand the BDSM community has felt misunderstood in the past, that outsiders think it’s all about abuse, and Fifty is in no way an accurate representation of an authentic Dom/sub relationship.

I’ve been reading tons of blogs. I’ve talked to both men and women involved in the lifestyle. I’ve joined private groups on Facebook, and followed many pages of Doms, Dommes, subs, and littles. Private groups on Facebook, and even certain blogs on Tumblr portray the lifestyle pretty accurately. Their main objective is to provide accurate information, which is vital so participants don’t get taken advantage of, or worse, injured.

The public fan pages on Facebook mystify me though. Obviously, erotic authors have professional fan pages with provocative photos and/or relevant articles related to whatever they’re writing about, but this is done to sell books. I can’t figure out why any Dom or a Mistress would create a fan page just for the hell of it. Entertainment? A creative outlet? Ego? And they have tons of followers, mind you. We’re talking thousands. It’s like they’re celebrities.

Dommes post erotic photos (within FB guidelines), which are like the clean version of porn stills, so the comments are all by middle-aged to older men wishing it was them being stepped on with spike heels or paddled or walked outside with a leash. “Yes, Mistress,” Please, Mistress,” “I love you, Mistress.” But Mistresses make it clear they’re not to be solicited for business.

Dom pages are even worse, because women as a whole seem to be particularly vulnerable to men who come across as assertively sexy or provocative. Doesn’t matter that these women have no idea what the man looks like. Hell, he could be posting while sitting on a dirty, ripped couch in stained underwear, swigging a Bud, but if they portray themselves as sensitive and in touch with women’s feelings (while being DOMINANT, of course), women swoon like prepubescent girls paging through Tiger Beat Magazine.

“Oh, Sir, if only I could find a man like you.” “Sir, your words hit me right in my solar plexus.” “Sir, Sir, Sir…”

It feels a little cult-like to me. Why should a stranger call someone they don’t know “Sir” if he’s not your Sir. No one addresses a “Daddy” as such. It’s way too personal a title. Another thing I’ve noticed is a lot of middle-aged Doms prefer emotionally-broken 20-somethings. I’m not sure if this is because they feel they can save them or mold them, or what. And FFS, does every Dom have to be a polygamist and an exhibitionist? Seems like their most important pastime in life is going to dungeon parties, picking out a new, young impressionable thing, getting her up on a St. Andrew’s cross and going to town on her.

It’s bad enough practically every single kinky picture involves young, thin, and firm. (Isn’t this what “vanilla” people complain about all the time?) In a lifestyle claiming diversity and open-mindedness, where the fuck is the diversity? Where are all the middle-aged, thick women? Surely, there are plenty. And in a community that preaches non-judgment, they’re pretty freaking judgmental when it comes to a vanilla lifestyle. If a couple wants to have vanilla sex and it’s satisfying to them, who is anyone to judge? Just because someone enjoys being whipped or humiliated or tied up doesn’t make them any more edgy than someone who prefers being vanilla. (Oh, how I despise that banal term.)

I guess what I’m questioning is the need for some people to have their sexuality right out there in the open. Is it really anyone’s business what their kinks are? Why do they feel the need to share them with the rest of the world? If I came out as a lesbian, I don’t think I’d start a public Facebook page and only post things regarding homosexuality. By making it your sole identity, it goes against what gay people ultimately want—to be like everyone else by not having their sexuality singled out.

I dunno. Maybe I’m just a cranky, private, introverted, non-exhibitionist monogamist.

I’d love to hear anyone’s views on the subject.

IT’S ALL ABOUT THE HAIR

James Dean

It’s been a while, so I thought I’d give an update on how life is with a 13-year-old boy. We have a sudden newfound preoccupation with all things hair. Starting with the hair on the head, my son has adopted what I guess is similar to a James Dean hairstyle—short on the sides and back, with upright wave-like hair on top. Thanks to the Internet (no, really, thank you), the boy can scroll through a gazillion photos, trying to find the hairstyle he likes and then come to me and ask me to duplicate it.

I gave birth to a boy for a reason. I’m not a girlie-girl. I don’t do girlie things. I mean, I don’t drive an 18-wheeler or chop wood or anything, but I bite my nails, don’t know how to do a smoky eye, and have never once blown dry or curled my hair. I’m more of a “How to pull myself together in 7 minutes or less without being labeled ‘homeless’ by the outside community” kind of girl.

So when my son asked me to style his hair one day, I directed him to his other parent for help: YouTube. Anything you want to know how to do, there’s a video for it. It’s mind-boggling. Unfortunately, with the desire for fancy hair comes the need for fancy haircuts, so bringing him to the ghetto part of town for a $5 haircut by women who don’t speak English no longer flies. And now whenever we go out, even if it’s to Walmart, it takes him 25 minutes to do his hair, because “you never know who you might see there.” (Oh, I have an idea of who we might see at Walmart and it ain’t pretty.)

We’re also at the stage where it’s of critical importance to evaluate ALL hair on the body. We’ll be driving and he’ll say, “Look at the dark hair on my legs. Look at it. In the sun. Can you see it? Can you? Look at how much there is. There’s a lot, isn’t there? See?” He has no hair yet under the arms or on the chest; it’s all in the pubic area, so I’m privy to the day-by-day account of its growth. He counted them when there were only a few sparse hairs. Now, with the onslaught of pubic hair, it’s a source of pride and warrants bragging rights.

I get it. I vaguely recall comparing my blossoming chest size to every other girl who crossed my path at school. I remember marveling over my pubes, and being ecstatic over the fact that I had gotten my period before my best friend. These are all extremely important milestones as a kid. As is the big M.

Masturbation.

I could pretend my son has monkish tendencies or very low testosterone, but that would be taking the “ostrich in the sand” approach—something I see mothers all around me doing when it comes to their kid and sex. But I’m more savvy than that. I know that once boys discover the wonders of masturbation it literally rivals all other activities…until they begin the quest of trying to find girls to do it for them.

I’m not going to lie. Porn scares me nowadays. The fact that one can find any kink with just a few taps of the keys is disconcerting. Back in my day (yes, I’m starting to use that phrase now) if you wanted to watch porn you had to go to a mafia-owned XXX movie theater with sticky floors. Which men did. But not women. No, no, no. The first porn DVD I ever saw was with my gay friend and it was the Pamela Anderson/Tommy Lee honeymoon one and it was so awful we laughed our way through the entire thing. I didn’t watch another porn for like 15 years because 1. I sure in the hell wasn’t going to walk into an adult store alone and buy one, 2. I sure in the hell wasn’t going to go into that section of the local video store alone and rent one, and 3. A $300 charge for porn once arrived on the Internet bill because my dumbass ex didn’t realize he was clicking on something he had to pay for, so that pretty much put the fear of watching web porn into me.

Anyway, I told my son porn would destroy his growing brain just like drugs would, and no, I don’t feel guilty for that. “If you promise you won’t masturbate to porn, I’ll buy you a Playboy. You can masturbate to that.” He agreed, we pinky-swore, and then we went out in search of a Playboy. Well. Let me tell you how hard it is to find a damn Playboy in this day and age. I must have gone into no less than thirteen 7-11s and liquor stores, claiming I was a writer needing one for research. And the places that did have dirty magazines had ones which were just as bad as porn.

For $15 I ordered one online. I wished there was a magazine out there I could give my son which would provide a more sex-positive experience—maybe one with pictures of teenage girls with various body types, including plus-size, and no airbrushing, so he could have a more realistic view of “real” women, but then I realized there are probably many of them out there. For pedophiles, and that’s extremely icky, and grounds for arrest.

We’re lying to ourselves if we think teens aren’t going to access porn on the Internet. Sure, we can block it in our homes, but there will always be that one friend who has “Ass Ventura Crack Detective” bookmarked on their phone. I can only pray my son doesn’t grow up thinking all women have huge fake breasts and tight asses. Or expect a nurse who’s examining him to suddenly unzip his pants and start sucking him off. I hope he realizes that only women who do strenuous yoga and/or perform in Cirque de Soleil can contort their bodies into absurd positions while every orifice is filled.

Sigh. Welcum to the Information Age.

PORN AS SEXUAL EMPOWERMENT OR DEVIL’S CANDY

mosaic

I’m a Facebook slut. Or nympho—meaning I like to be on it, all the time. I do have limits though. I don’t post a new selfie every other day. I don’t poke or poke back (All I can think of is The Three Stooges poking each other in the eyes). And I try to refrain from outwardly shaming people whose opinions I consider asinine crap.

I do however, post way more cat memes than any human should. I divulge information about the boy that will probably come back to haunt him. And when I’m feeling particularly feisty I like to voice my strong opinions or play devil’s advocate on random sites just to evoke argument.

So I’m scrolling through my feed last week and up pops this meme from an anti-porn site. Now I’m not anti-porn. In fact, I like my porn—in moderation. I think it’s only a problem if your SO doesn’t want to have sex with you anymore because he’s (or she’s) wanking it 7x a day to these silicone, Botoxed beauties. Or males with 14-inch penises (24-inch when erect). Or petite she-males.

This anti-porn meme quoted Jonah Mix: “I’m not interested in a world where men really want to watch porn but resist because they’ve been shamed; I’m interested in a world where men are raised from birth with such an unshakeable understanding of women as living human beings that they are incapable of being aroused by their exploitation.” (Yeah, well, unless we’re going back to Egyptian times, good luck with that.)

So, because I was bored I posted a comment: “And I’m interested in a world where women are raised from birth with such an unshakeable sense of self-worth that they are incapable of considering the option of having to f*ck for money.”

And then I waited for the shit storm.

And it came. From both men and women. Not only did I get the “Women who do porn are sexually-empowered and they have the right to choose their own career,” but I also got “Some women actually enjoy doing porn, and it’s not because they’re drugged-up losers. They enjoy sex and like being in business for themselves.”

I fired back with examples citing former porn stars who have exposed the realities of this ugly business (like anal and vaginal tearing, and drug and alcohol dependency), as well as the running joke that women who take off their clothes for money almost always have Daddy issues, and that it became a joke only because it’s true more often than not. I stated that if these women were able to work the same amount of hours for the same amount of money sitting on their asses at a desk, instead of on someone’s face, they would choose the desk job. I also made it clear that not ALL women who get in to the porn industry have low self-esteem. Some are in fact, nymphomaniacs, and others thrive on the money and attention. But one has to ask why they thrive on the attention (self-esteem problems) and what drives them to be a nympho in the first place (trying to fulfill the emptiness inside themselves because, um, they have low fucking self-esteem!!!)

And back and forth it went. Now, when I engage in controversial discussions on Facebook it serves only as a form of verbal masturbation for me. In fact, I get more excited when I make a logical point than I do watching any porn. I realize I’ll never change anyone’s opinion, just like I’ll never convert someone who’s pro-life to pro-choice. I simply thrive on offering up intelligent, thought-out responses which maybe, just maybe allow someone to see the issue another way.

I could care less who chooses to do porn and why. I’m not an advocate for a porn-free world, and as long as viewers are paying big bucks, women (and men) will be fucking…and sucking…and spanking…and flogging. But I stand by my opinion that if women grew up with a greater sense of self, there would be fewer hookers, strippers, and porn actresses in the world.

My comment has received over 600 likes so far, so evidently there are men and women out there who share the same opinion.

What say you? I’d love to hear your opinion on the subject of porn. Is it the work of the devil filled with sinners OR empowering, sexy entertainment?

FOR ALL THE HOLIDAY MISFITS

krampus

For the past 5 years I have fallen into a holiday funk. Being single, coupled with not having any family to spend the holidays with during a season where ads for love and family and togetherness and diamond rings to “show her you care” are pounded into one’s psyche ad nauseam are enough to make anyone want to go off the deep end.

Then there’s my beloved Facebook, my social media of choice and social life all rolled up in one. Only this time of year, my preferred memes containing cats or offensive snarkiness fall along the wayside to ho hum pics of newly engaged couples in front of their tree and family gatherings with everyone dressed in their holiday finest—including my own, mind you, without me.

Here’s how it’s gone down for the last 5 years. Every Christmas eve, my entire family goes to an annual Xmas play. I drop my son off in front of my father’s house (because he and I are still not speaking to one another), wish my brother and sister a Merry Christmas, and off I go on my solitary way to feel sorry for myself at home while I view their happy group photos on Facebook that I’ve been tagged in so I can, you know, feel included as part of the family.

This year, I burst into tears as I was driving away, but only because my brother had just returned from Thailand and it would have been nice to be able to spend some time drinking with him that day and getting him to admit he solicited a she-male hooker by mistake. It would have been lovely to hang with my sister, who had finally fallen into a serious relationship with her best friend, even though he had fought their love for a year. I would have loved to tell her “I told you so,” because I did. Exactly a year ago.

They’re the family I miss. Not my asshat of a father who we all have to walk on eggshells around so as not to upset him. The asshat of a father who drinks too much and picks a fight with someone, anyone just to hear himself yell. No, I don’t miss that dysfunction at all.

With the world stressing how important family is, where does that leave you when you don’t have any to spend the holidays with? It sucks, but I vowed this year I wouldn’t fall into a deep, dark depression, and so far I haven’t. Maybe it was due to the power of intention. Perhaps my hormones are balanced this week. Or maybe for the first time, another single mother was at my friend’s Xmas dinner and for once, I didn’t feel so fucking alone in the sea of coupledom.

This woman’s husband committed suicide 2 years ago. Blew his brains out on a wilderness trail, leaving behind a wife and 11-year-old son. She’s very open about the whole ordeal, which is why I have enormous respect for her. Her family is spread out all over the world, and her mother is exactly like my father, so she’s essentially alone like I am. She has no interest in going out and trying to land another husband because she can’t hack being alone, and for that, along with her honesty and bluntness, she and I get along great.

We made plans to get together next week. She’s going to teach me how to make Spanish rice, authentic beans, and chicken Verde. Any other year I’d have shied away from making plans and doing anything that required me to smile, but this year is different. This year I consciously acknowledge there are other women out there who have just as craptastic a life as me. I simply have to find them. This woman whose husband blindsided her with death. Another woman I met on Thanksgiving has 2 kids, and is separated from her cross-dressing husband (although she’s OCD and a bit of a hoarder, so who the hell knows what the story is there). She’s asked me to get together with her as well.

These are the women I need to seek out in the years to come. Not the ones with their picture-perfect Norman Rockwell lives. I don’t have anything in common with them. I’ll seek out the misfits and the wounded and the shunned. The divorced and the widowed and the transgendered. Really anyone who doesn’t live a cookie-cutter life.

For all those who are going through a tough time this holiday season, take heart. It’s almost over. Try to seek out others in the same sinking boat. You may find they help keep you afloat.

WHAT YOU TALKIN BOUT GWYNETH?

Stupid stuff

It took me a while to gather my thoughts for this post. I had to first gather the pieces of my exploded head and put them all back together again. What made my head explode? Not men this time, no. It was the asinine comments made by a celebrity. Usually I ignore what a celebrity has to say. About anything. Unless it’s George Takai or Morgan Freeman. Or my future husband, Al Pacino. As for every other celebrity and/or model, they need to understand that the general public doesn’t respect anything that comes out of their mouths simply because they make too much damn money. Anyone who spends more on a child’s birthday party than what an average home costs in California is not rooted in reality.

Let’s take Gwyneth Paltrow for example—the celeb who made my head explode. I already dislike her, because 1. She’s blonde and I’m not, and 2. She’s super skinny and I’m not, and 3. She’s very rich and I’m not. So the bitch already has 3 strikes against her. As if those weren’t reasons enough, I started to really despise her when I discovered this funny little piece written by Jamila Rizvi (who I don’t know, but I automatically like because she looks more like me). Gwyneth is a health and fitness fanatic who I’m guessing doesn’t consume more than 50,000 calories in a year. During the holidays she admitted she splurges a little, which probably means she consumed 5 salted cashews and a handful of popcorn with butter. That’s certainly enough sodium to make anyone gain half an ounce in water weight. So what’s Gwyneth’s solution to getting back on track after all that gluttonous splurging? A cleanse, of course—a cleanse that’s “warming, filling and doesn’t feel like a sacrifice.”

Great! Sign me up, because I’m positive I must have 17 pounds of chocolate and Christmas cookies impacted in my colon.

Gwyneth explains, “Our winter detox has looser guidelines and restrictions than ones we’ve done in the past but here is what we’re avoiding: dairy, gluten, shellfish, anything processed (including all soy products), nightshades (potatoes, tomatoes, peppers and eggplant), condiments, sugar, alcohol, caffeine and soda.”

Wait, what?

Breakfast is a cup of freaking herbal tea. Fine, I might be able to hang with that, but come lunch time I’ll be ready to eat my own arm, so what’s to eat? 6 cups of hot water with chickpeas. I stopped reading after that, because while she suggested things to do to make you less hungry (Wearing socks and drinking MORE herbal tea), my guess is she must eat her money to stay full, since no human can remain conscious on a mere 300 calories a day. But stars and models are a special kind of breed so I’ll forgive the insane dieting rituals they must put themselves through to remain emaciated.

Then came the announcement last week of Gwyneth and Chris Martin’s separation—no, wait, “conscious uncoupling.” Gwyneth introduced the term many of us hadn’t ever heard before. It’s basically a new-age, no-drama approach to the splitsville process coined by the psychotherapist, Katherine Woodward Thomas. “The process of conscious uncoupling involves breathing exercises and a lot of self-reflection to ‘break up victimization,’” Ms. Thomas said. Right. So instead of wallowing in self-pity for years like I did, lamenting the fact that I was a complete dumbass for choosing my dysfunctional partner in the first place, or going the no-drama route as opposed to say, having to call 911 because he threatened to kill me, I imagine Gwyneth and Chris sat down to dinner one night and in between Gwyneth asking Chris to pass the brussel sprouts without any seasoning, butter, or oil, she asked him for a divorce as well. Now that’s what I call congeniality.

Now again, I can forgive Gwyneth for being an airy fairy head, because let’s face it, you have to be somewhat kooky to survive Hollywood; what I can’t forgive is her making ignorant and downright stupid remarks over something she knows nothing about. On Page Six of the NY Post, she talks about wanting to spend more time with her kids—a noble gesture, only she should have stopped there, because she goes on to say “things are more difficult for her than other moms, because of the demanding nature and unpredictable schedule of her acting career.”

Uh-huh. Do tell, Gwyneth.

“I think to have a regular job and be a mom is not as, of course there are challenges, but it’s not like being on set,” Paltrow said.

You’re damn right it’s not like being on set. You want to know what it’s like being on set? I’ll tell you, because I have, in fact, been on set and it sure as hell doesn’t give you varicose veins from sitting all day for a stinking office job. When you’re a lead actress, you roll out of bed and in to the hair and makeup chair. Then you go back to your private trailer and wait until they’re ready for you. You see, all the tedious work is done by a stand-in (which I’ve been) so the lead doesn’t have to stand on her feet for hours under hot lights while the crew sets up the shot. As soon as things are ready, the actress comes out, does her scene, and returns to her trailer where she is free to do whatever she wants—have sex, sleep, exercise, eat then vomit, get a massage, yap on the phone, online shop, fart around on Facebook…she can even have her kids with her if she so chooses because there are on-set tutors!

Gwyneth bitches about not being able to do a routine with her kids because, “When you’re shooting a movie, they’re like, ‘We need you to go to Wisconsin for two weeks,’ and then you work 14 hours a day, and that part of it is very difficult.”

Yes, it is indeed very difficult to have to work 14-hour days for only two weeks out of the year when you could be working 9 to 5 every day, and then rushing home to make a box of Mac n Cheese before soccer practice, racing home after that to get homework done, a shower, bedtime, after which you collapse from exhaustion into bed yourself. That’s my idea of quality time with the kids X 100. (Check out this delicious open letter to Gwyneth from a working mom.)

What do you mean that’s NOT the routine you were referring to, Gwyneth? Your nanny does all that crap for you? You just wanted to be home to kiss the kids good night? Why didn’t you say so? It’s extremely stressful to have the nanny thrown off her schedule. Everyone knows that. So next time, Gwyneth, let’s have your nanny make these comments instead of you, because as I said before, no one wants to hear complaining from someone who has probably never had a “regular” job and makes more money in a second than they’ll ever see in a lifetime. Mmmkay?

THE HOLIDAYS—MAY THEY REST IN PEACE

Bah humbug

I can’t lie—I’m glad the holidays are over. Yes, I’m one of those people. But when you have no family to spend Christmas with and no significant other to kiss at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, the holidays blow. I survived by drinking more than I should and religiously following the posts on a site called Emerging from Broken. It was on this site I learned I was not alone. There’s many, many more like me who either have no contact or minimal contact with their terribly dysfunctional families.

Every day I’d peruse Facebook even though I was continuously assaulted by happy people getting together with their families. Even worse was seeing photos and postings of my own happy family. It stung. A lot. It wasn’t so much the lack of them I was missing. It was the lack of a family to call my own. Most people who are estranged from their family have chosen to create their own—usually through marriage. In my case, it’s only my son and I.

At some point in December, my son threw out those dreaded words no single mom ever wants to hear: “Why can’t you marry Daddy so he can come live with us?”

“Because Daddy is engaged to be married to another woman,” I told him. The boy is 11. Sorry, but I’m just not sugarcoating it anymore. At least my response succeeded in halting the conversation in its tracks.

We spent Christmas day with my friend’s in-laws who have graciously “adopted” us. There are advantages to celebrating with other people’s families. In between the ham and the pumpkin pie, the conversation turned to religion (a big social no-no) and ended with my friend’s husband banging his fists on the table and accusing his father of refusing to acknowledge his nephew’s homosexuality. “Why can’t you admit your nephew is gay, Dad? Say it!” he screamed.

This drama didn’t faze me in the least because hey—it ain’t my family. So I got up and went into the other room with the kids. It was very freeing. But New Year’s Eve was a completely different story. Who wants to go to a party where everyone is coupled up, or worse, there are 3 token single men all vying for my drunken attention? No thanks. Plus, everyone’s an alcoholic in my neighborhood, or a meth head (or usually both), so if driving is especially dicey under normal circumstances, can you imagine on New Year’s Eve?

But after a meh Christmas and an utterly craptastic New Year’s Eve, the Gods of Fair Play decided to reward me with a book contract for my hot mess that took me over a year to write and edit. It’s called THE MEATBALL MISTRESS and it’s about a sassy Italian girl from Bensonhurst, Brooklyn who flees to the Jersey shore after finding her fiancé in a compromising position. She’s, of course, bitter and cynical about men (I really had to stretch to write about that!) and meets her match in a guy who’s probably the biggest commitment-phobe in Jersey. So how do they wind up falling in love, you ask? Hmmm…

Since I literally thought I was going to end up burying this one in my backyard underneath a mound of compost, I’ll admit I’m pleased. Hopefully this recent euphoria will work to balance out the emotional upheaval I’ll be experiencing next month when I turn 46.

So how were your holidays?

RANDOM CRAP THAT FILLS MY HEAD

THINKING

Sometimes when I’m feeling particularly low energy and I choose to indulge my procrastination tendencies, I think. A lot. About important stuff. Meaningless stuff. All right, it’s mostly meaningless stuff. This is some of the meaningless stuff I thought about this week:

How do women in relationships maintain their sexiness throughout winter? I live in SouthernWarm socks California and I still complain about the winters being too cold for me. For anyone reading who thought I might be remotely sexy because I like to watch porn, I’m going to annihilate that image right now. Do you want to know what I wear to bed when I’m cold? FLEECE! And lots of it. Fleece bottoms (with ridiculous patterns on them like black cats or the character, Animal from Sesame Street), a fleece top, some kind of fleece thingy over that, and of course, socks. It all stays on while I sleep under a sheet, a down comforter, and 2 fleece blankets. Now granted, I’m single with only the diva Chihuahua sharing my bed, but as my friend’s husband stated last night, “No man can see a woman’s beauty through layers of fleece.”

WTF is Tumblr and Reddit? Is it important? Do I need it? Is it even worth my time to Google them? Do I even have the brain cells necessary, or rather, the brain capacity to keep up with changing technology for the rest of my life? It already isn’t looking good.

How do you get the toilet bowl to smell nice without using that toxic blue crap that I’m convinced will ultimately poison all the fish in the ocean?

What’s up with all these bogus rules as you get older? I just read that women over 35 shouldn’t wear powder anymore because it settles in the lines and wrinkles. You know what else we’re not supposed to wear? Sequins, miniskirts, the color grey, bright nail polish, leather pants, and words plastered on our asses. I hate rules. It makes me want to purposely break them, and the older I get the more defiant I become. So don’t be surprised if you see me on the street wearing too tight black leather pants with the words “Hot Mama” on my butt cheeks, a grey sequined top,  blood red acrylic fingernails, and spike heels.

And for the men over 35? Don’t think you’re exempt. It said: No wearing tight jeans, baseballs caps, cargo pants, “band” T-shirts, or 21 year olds on your arm. Just sayin’…

Tattoo ladyHow many tattoos will I have when I die? I got a new tattoo 2 weeks ago. I’ve since had a dream I was getting another tattoo. I can hear my mom screaming, “Noooo!” as she’s reading this. Hey, it’s either another tattoo or another cat. And I’m already feeding 5. Tattoos are addicting. I’m not quite sure why. But I find they’re quite effective at hiding physical imperfections. When I showed the tattoo artist where I wanted my tattoo, I hiked up my dress, pointed to the back of my thigh and told him he needed to put it wherever there was cellulite.

Writing, like child rearing is getting harder as life goes on, despite EVERYONE telling me they get easier with time. (Lies, all lies.) Does ANYTHING get easier as one gets older? I Googled “What gets easier as we age?” Of course, there’s the usual crap written by women about how once you hit your 40s and beyond, life gets easier because you’re more confident, secure, sex gets better, blah, blah. As far as I’m concerned, sex only gets better if you’ve been doing it wrong all these years and some gracious partner finally shows you the light—or the G-spot, as the case may be. You’re more secure, unless you’ve just been cleaned out by your vindictive ex-wife and are now forced to rent a room in a house and share a bathroom. You’re more confident if you’ve finally taken your doctor’s advice and filled that prescription of Xanax he prescribed you some time ago when you complained about how your social anxiety was preventing you from leaving the house. Even bowel movements get harder as one gets older. Thank you, Google.

Is there a Sicilian curse on the women in my family? My Italian grandmother, who had only everThe Sicilian been with one man remained single from her early 60s on after my grandfather died. My mother has been single since her mid 40s, and I have been single now for 10 years. Although in my case, that may have more to do with the over-abundance of fleece in my life more than anything else.

Why do I have the sudden urge to start an annual tradition of throwing an Ugliest Christmas Sweater Party? I hate parties and I hate ugly sweaters, but together? For some inexplicable reason, I think it would be pure magic.

Ugly sweaters

Would I be able to overlook a man’s emotional insensitivity if he were a certified massage therapist? Yes, I believe I can. Any man who would be willing to give me a decent back massage every night would be able to slide on a lot of things. Hell, he wouldn’t even have to know how to spell. He’d simply have to know how to get through the fleece.

What meaningless crap fills your head?

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