THE ART OF NOT GIVING A FUCK

 

The older I get the less I give a fuck. There’s something incredibly freeing about knowing you have limited time left on this earth. I used to give a fuck. Often. About what men thought, family, peers. And then I realized these people had some very stringent ideas about who I should be. For them.

In my 20s I once dated a man who worked in politics in Washington DC. He continually expressed surprise any time I uttered a big word. “You know, you’re really very intelligent,” he’d say, as if intelligence and beauty were mutually exclusive. I got a subscription to the NY Times for him because he so valued intelligence despite me not giving a fuck about politics. Nowadays, I won’t even consider a date with someone who supports my opposing party.

Another boyfriend of mine was horrified I didn’t know the capital of each state. He gave me a list, told me to study hard, and then he’d pop quiz me out of the blue. Before a movie, before bed, “Psst, what’s the capital of Georgia?” I didn’t give a fuck about the capitals, but I performed like a good show dog does for treats. If I had a man do that to me now, I’d tell him to go fuck himself. In Atlanta.

I’ve been called “crazy” numerous times, because I’m passionate. Because I have a temper. Because I like to fuck in risqué places, because I don’t follow the status quo. My mother recently asked me what I planned to do about the family once I published my erotic romance. “Are you going to tell them about it? What will you do if they want to read it?”

I told her, “I don’t give a fuck whether they read it or not. I’m too old to be ashamed of what I do and if people want to judge me, let them.”

I’m done trying to please people. I’m done making excuses for who I am as a person, as offensive as that may be to those with more delicate aesthetics. I own my craziness, my passion, my sexuality, my uniqueness. For every quality that people shame, they don’t realize it contributes to the whole being. “If you weren’t “this way,” you also wouldn’t be “that way.”

Here’s what happened when my friend married a certain man primarily because he’d be a good father. He’s a great father, but as a husband and lover? Meh. Another friend of mine married a woman he knew would be a great mother and housewife. What a surprise they no longer have sex. Another man I know married someone for her efficient organizational skills in the hope that it would help him keep his shit together. “She’s organized all right, but she’s the meanest, most boring person alive,” he told me, “and everyone else thinks so, too, even our kids.”

My point? You can’t have the good without also accepting the bad. You can’t not marry a woman because you deem her “crazy,” and then a few years down the road want to have an affair with someone “crazy” because your wife is so freaking dull in bed. You can’t marry a conservative, stable man and then complain about him only wanting sex in the bedroom. You got what you bargained for, now deal with it.

OWN YOUR SHIT. And don’t ever let anyone else make you feel bad for it. For every thing that people tried to change in me, I wish I had been strong enough to tell them to fuck off. The right person “gets” you; the wrong person shames you. Be proud of your strengths; be proud of your weaknesses. Embrace everything as part of a whole, a yin/yang thing, if you will.

Those who truly love and respect you won’t want you to ever be something you’re not. I know many couples who’ve suppressed their innermost desires with their mates for fear of rejection or humiliation. At what cost, I wonder. I know a man whose girlfriend is fine with him being with another man sexually, but would flip out knowing he was with another woman. So, he lies about being with other women.

2 nights ago I ran in to this 27-year-old who’s been asking me out since he was 21. Finally, I said to him, “Look, being a mother is my first priority. I don’t date. I don’t bring men around my son. All my energies go toward raising him.”

I didn’t care how weird it might have sounded. I don’t care if people think I’m some crazy spinster who will accumulate more cats the older she gets. I’ll fall in love when I’m done raising my son. Or not.

Despite my vow of remaining relationship-less, I’m very open sexually. I love talking about sex. It amazes me how so many are uptight about discussing anything sexual when it’s as natural as eating or breathing. They wonder why they have problems in the bedroom. When you pull the stick out of your ass and actually communicate about your wants and desires without fear of losing the person, that’s when you’re truly liberated. So what if you lose your partner? Is it easier to live a lie? So many women long to be dominated sexually by their man (or men wanting to dominated by women) and yet, they can’t tell them. They’d rather remain frustrated, resentful, unfulfilled. All because they’re worried about losing the other person who they probably shouldn’t have married in the first place.

Stop giving so many fucks.

One life. Limited time. Think about it.

WRITING, MEN, INSANITY, AND CHAOS

It’s been forever since I’ve posted, which makes me feel bad about myself because I used to post much more frequently. On the other hand, I’ve been working on my book and that has taken up all my time and energy. Writing a novel is all-consuming in that it becomes the only thing you think about morning, noon, and night. It’s like having an obsessive crush on someone who feels only Meh about you. If they show you any positive attention, you’re on top of the world (much like one feels when writing goes well), but most of the time, they could care less about you, leaving you feeling unfulfilled and frustrated (much like one feels when they think what they wrote that day stinks, or they haven’t written a single word at all).

I’m not going to lie. It’s freaking tough to write when you’re a single parent. My writing needs to be done while the boy is at school or it doesn’t get done. I remember reading an article about Jacquelyn Mitchard, the author of The Deep End of the Ocean whose husband’s sudden death left her needing to come up with a way to support her kids. She wrote that book sitting at the kitchen table with her kids running all over the place, amidst chaos and confusion.

So I tried it the other night. Writing amidst chaos and confusion. I sat my ass on the couch, Friends reruns on the TV, with my son sitting next to me, constantly interrupting to show me asinine YouTube videos he finds hilarious. The fact that I was trying to write a sex scene is neither here nor there. I wrote 2 sentences and then gave up. Even now, while writing this, the boy is in his room, blasting rap music and shouting at his Xbox. I know I’ll be lost once he gets older and moves out, but at the moment, it’s a picture this lover of peace and quiet is having a hard time imagining.

Sometimes novels and all the research that goes in to them are wonderful for self-realization. One of my main characters is bipolar, so I’ve done a crapload of research on bipolar disorder, only to come to realize I’m 99% sure my father is bipolar, which is why he’s been such an insane asshole all these years. Not that people with bipolar disorder are insane assholes, but left untreated and choosing to self-medicate with drugs and alcohol, a lot of their behavior is very asshole-y.

You would think I’d have some revelatory A-ha moment and feel sorry for him for having an illness he can’t help, but I don’t. Truth is, he’s known he’s had a mood disorder for many, many years. God knows his entire family has told him as much. But when he went to his Beverly Hills physician years ago to discuss his “possible” mood disorder, the doctor excused it by telling him he was simply a Type-A personality and intense, and every Type-A person was like that.

He came home so proud after that, like a peacock strutting his colorful feathers, because he had gotten validation from a “physician to the stars,” and therefore, he didn’t have no stinking problem. Hey, here’s a heads up. When family and friends don’t want to be around you more often than not, if your moods go up and down like the strength tester game at the county fair, if your wife threatens to leave you every time you go through a particularly intolerable heinous period, then you got a stinking problem!

But it’s not my problem anymore, plus I’m out of the will anyway.

So, what else is going on? Well, I’m still single. I tried dating someone casually, but that didn’t work out too well. I went in to it stating, “I don’t want a serious relationship” (meaning You will never be my priority), but he took it as, “I hear what you’re saying, but I will eventually wear you down.” Ah, men and their love of challenges. I get it though. The first (and last) time I pursued something with a man who, straight off the bat said, and I quote: “I don’t want a relationship,” I completely ignored those words, too. Because after all, who wouldn’t want a relationship with me? I’m fabulous.

Turned out he did in fact want a relationship. Just not with me. He ended up marrying my son’s elementary school principal, and is now happily living in an all-White neighborhood where everyone makes six-figures (despite him being a tatted-up Hispanic custodian).

Anyhoo, back to this guy. After a few dates, he said to me, “I’m wearing you down, aren’t I? Tell me you’re not falling for me just a little bit” to which I responded in all my blunt honesty (since I don’t know how to be any other way), “I’m really not, and I meant what I said from the get-go.”

But he still kept at it. The situation reminded me of Gary Larson’s Far Side cartoon: What we say to dogs versus What they hear. The owner points to his dog, saying “Okay, Ginger! I’ve had it! You stay out of the garbage! Understand, Ginger? Stay out of the garbage, or else!” But the dog only hears, “blah blah Ginger blah blah blah blah blah Ginger blah blah blah…”

So, since we always seem to refer to men as dogs, I’m guessing what this guy heard was pretty much the same thing.

In all fairness to him he dodged a bullet, because I’m certainly no prize. I have my hands full with an ADD son who randomly sneaks up and attacks me much like Cato does with Inspector Clouseau in The Pink Panther movies, which has turned me in to a woman “on the edge” at all times, a 6-year-old diva dog who still pisses on the one remaining carpet whenever she feels like it, and a bulimic cat.

Then there’s me who, while you’re talking, is thinking about how to solve that plot problem, instead of listening to you.

 

What’s new with you?

PORN AS SEXUAL EMPOWERMENT OR DEVIL’S CANDY

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?

BAD BOYS ARE LIKE TOO MUCH MEXICAN FOOD

I have this male friend who always dates crazy women. And then ends up complaining about them, claiming they’re “emotional fucktards.” I get it—the crazy ones are uninhibited, fun and unpredictable, like a fast ride on a mechanical bull. Problem is no one can stay on a bull for very long. It’s exhausting, and you often wind up face down on a dirty, sawdust-covered bar floor, wishing you were home in your recliner, watching TV and drinking a longneck.

Bad boys are the equivalent of emotional fucktard women. I’m constantly asked by men what women see in bad boys, why they never go for the nice guys. I’m a former bad boy lover. Nothing got me going more than a tall, dark, emotionally-retarded guy with tattoos who could kick some ass if someone looked at him wrong. It stemmed from my teenage years when I hung out with the neighborhood guys—high school dropouts with absent fathers, tough guys who got tattooed at age 15 and watched their older brothers succumb to heroin addiction.

Not exactly marriage material. But when you’re a nut as I was you’re not thinking long-term. If you’re a girl who likes to take a walk on the wild side and is used to getting what she wants, you’re going to be attracted to a man who can “handle” you. A man who makes you work for the relationship, for the thrill, for the challenge. Nutty women don’t like easy. Or smooth. Or drama-free. Every day needs to feel like they’re on a movie set or else they get bored. And if you’re loca, boredom is a fate worse than death.

A bad boy keeps you guessing, longing, gives you the continual sensation of sprinting barefoot across scorching hot pavement. And this can be very exciting. For a while. Until you suffer a mild concussion from being slammed up against the wall. Until you’re forced to work two jobs because he can’t hold down one. Until he goes out drinking with his buddies even though you just found out your father died. Until you realize he brings his cell to the bathroom while he showers.

“I still don’t understand why girls go for bad boys,” nice guys cry.

Women go for men who are confident, exciting, adventurous, challenging, masculine, and in-control. So if you’re all this as well as a nice guy, and your face doesn’t look like it’s been run over by a rototiller, you shouldn’t be having any problems getting the ladies.

“But why do women stay with guys who treat them like crap?”

Because they’re emotional fucktards. It’s as simple as that. Like attracts like. Dysfunction attracts dysfunction. Men need to stop trying to analyze bad boys and instead, analyze the woman they’re attracted to who’s going for the bad boys. No self-respecting woman puts up with a bad boy’s crap. The ones who are attracted to the bad boys are insecure, have low self-esteem, and/or have Daddy issues. Do you really want to be with a woman like that?

I was an emotional fucktard with Daddy issues and a Florence Nightingale complex. But recently I’ve experienced a modicum of emotional growth as a human being; therefore the bad boys have lost their appeal. Now I can smell their cologne a mile away. Now when they give me that head nod and say “Hey” (not “Hi,” mind you. Only nice guys say “Hi.”) I keep my head down and continue walking. I’ve learned that getting involved with bad boys is like eating too much Mexican food. It may taste good going in, but you’re gassy and bloated for days and your ass burns when it comes out.

So for all you nice guys out there, let the bad boys have their relationshits with the emotional fucktards of the world and go find yourselves a nice girl you can bring home to Mom.

IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT YOU CHOSE CRAPPY MEN

2014 is the year I’ve decided to take back my power. Nobody likes a whiny little bitch and God knows I’ve blamed myself for my craptastic life way too long. Women have a tendency to do that all the time—blame themselves for everything that goes wrong. They become the “victim,” which in turn leads to depression or apathy or alcoholism (or all three) and trust me, that’s no way to live.

2014 is the year I start blaming other factors for my craptastic choices. So if you’re a woman who has made craptastic choices in men and blamed yourself, read on to realize why it wasn’t your fault.

BLAME HORMONES. A U.K. study found women who take the Pill choose the “wrong” man. Women are attracted to men whose genetic makeup is dissimilar to their own. But women on the Pill end up choosing a more genetically similar mate, which would be like the equivalent of having sex with your first cousin. Ultimately, it all has to do with a man’s smell. If she’s on the Pill and her man smells like ass, she won’t realize it until she’s gone off the Pill. Then her man will make her want to hurl every time he gets close, and no amount of Drakkar Noir is going to change it. So, kudos to being responsible with birth control; Boo to unknowingly choosing a man who stinks.

BLAME BIOLOGY. Women are hard wired to respond to a confident man. It has to do with survival of the fittest and all that caveman nonsense. The problem is that confidence is often coupled with douchebaggery. His level of self-confidence usually doesn’t match his successes…or morals…or values…or ability to remain faithful. And by the time we’ve figured that out, we’re the ones left feeling like crap because they’ve chosen yet another asshat. So, kudos to wanting to propagate the species; Boo to choosing an unevolved Neanderthal.

BLAME ALCOHOL. Alcohol is the mother of bad judgment. Why do people look so much more attractive when you’re drunk? Because alcohol impairs your vision so everything looks fuzzy and out of focus. You don’t notice the numerous imperfections or you’re too drunk to care. So when you end up marrying a man with a peg leg and an eye patch at an Elvis Chapel in Vegas, chances are in order to make that union work, you’re going to have to remain drunk throughout the marriage. So, kudos to being a fun party gal; Boo to choosing road kill that should have remained on the road.

I don’t know about you, but blaming everything else under the sun but me for my mistakes feels pretty liberating. It’s like finally seeing the results from dieting, without having to do all that pesky deprivation and exercise crap.

What else can we blame for our mistakes?

WORST GIFTS EVER.

Christmas is my favorite time of year, along with Halloween. I love giving, more than receiving (which is why I’d make a better Mistress than Sub) and because of that trait, I’m going to give you all a Gift-Giving Guide for every person on your list. Stress no more, because I have all the answers for you…

Are you scratching your coconut, wondering what to get the cat lover in your life? How about this magnet set, so every time they open the fridge they get the ole stink eye, aka the furry eyeball? It’ll remind them constantly of their fur baby, and if they’re dieting, may even help reduce their appetite a bit.

No cat lovers? How about a lover of dogs? Bet they’ve never seen anything like this: Yes, it’s a humping USB dog! I’d even bet his little rump moves back and forth, too, for authenticity.

Perhaps you have a friend who finds cats and dogs distasteful, yet is stuck with the family pet since the son left for college. The major problem with those pesky creatures (besides needing to eat and relieve themselves) is they like to be pet. But now you never have to touch your pets again! And what I find particularly versatile about this product is it says it’s “Rechargeable for hotel use”–you know, for all those hotels you stay in while on vacation with your distasteful pet.

In keeping with the whole animal theme, someone must have a baby they need to buy for. Babies are easy, because it usually doesn’t take much to amuse them. Every baby has a gazillion teddy bears, but how many have a FARTING teddy bear? Am I right? Guaranteed laughs for everyone! And hopefully the surprising noise won’t scare the hell out of the baby and make them howl with fear.

Moving up a little in ages and being a mother myself, I’m here to tell you what will bring joy to every young boy’s face on Christmas morning:

Can you see the joy?

And little girls? There are so many gift choices out there for them. Who doesn’t love Barbie? I know I did. She’s such an inspiring role model. Dog Poop Barbie teaches girls Responsibility, while Pole Dancer Barbie teaches Entrepreneurship.

Do you need to rinse your eyes with bleach yet? No? Okay, good. Moving right along…

What about those hard-to-please teenagers? For the budding man concerned about smelling good:

One would have to be olfactory-challenged not to love the smell of bacon–especially in the morning.

And for the ripe girl on the brink of womanhood? This book should be given to girls as soon as they’re able to read imo, but I suppose the sooner you can get it into their inevitable poor-choice little hands, the better. Look, over one million in print! How surprising.

Men, are you racking your brains trying to come up with something to wow your SO? I have 2 gems for you to choose from, or why not splurge and buy both? We all know how crucial it is for a woman to be well-groomed, especially down there.

(Note: I wouldn’t advise using placenta to wash the toupee. Just sayin’.)

Aren’t men so hard to shop for? Seems like they have everything they need, don’t they? I can almost guarantee they won’t have either of these babies already. I mean really, if the woman is going to go through all the trouble of wearing a carpet down there and shampooing with placenta, the least he can do is keep his wiener clean.

And warm. Because nobody likes a frozen wiener.

If you happen to be the single male friend of an attached man you’d like to see single–you know, so you can do fun single male stuff together like go to bars and cruise chicks, get him these and you’ll be sure to see his relationship quickly implode. Hurray! Shots for everyone!

Is there a Climax button on this thing?

Everyone knows at least one pathetic, sad female without a special someone to call her own, right? They deserve gifts, too. The boyfriend pillow lets them know they’re not painfully alone; Unfortunately, the cookbook states otherwise, but it’s a practical gift–especially for the gal who has to watch her finances because of a meager one-income household.

Do you have a friend who always gets depressed around this season? Telling them to “Snap out of it!” may seem a little harsh so why not give them one of these gifts instead, to subtly convey your sensitivity over their “delicate condition”?

Coffee lover? Mmmm, I don’t know about you, but nothing makes me want to enjoy my coffee more than drinking it from a toilet bowl.

And what about the nauseating cutesy couple in Apt. 4G? You know the one–they appear to be conjoined twins and share a joint Facebook page. Awww, doesn’t it look like 2 elephants holding trunks?

What about your Jewish boss? Move over ugly Christmas sweaters! There’s a new kid in town.

Don’t forget Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma needs to look hip before she can go to the casino and gamble away her Social Security check.

And Grandpa? Have him use his aimless puttering around the house for good, instead of constantly-sticking-his-nose-in-your-business evil.

        Or, if he really does have EVERYTHING under the sun already, give him a big, fat…

There, that should have covered just about everyone on your list. A word of advice–Always have an extra present on hand, just in case. If someone surprises you by unexpectedly giving you a gift, surprise them right back with this one:

Some gifts can’t be bought. Remember, it’s the thought that counts.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

RANDOM CRAP THAT FILLS MY HEAD

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 Southern 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’…

How 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 ever 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.

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?

I SHOULD BE A GYNECOLOGIST IN MY NEXT LIFE

A male friend and I have this ongoing argument without resolution. He claims there are female nymphomaniacs out there—women who only want sex for sex’s sake, women who need it, a lot of it and often. I argue that it doesn’t matter how many men women sleep with, they’re almost always hoping these numerous encounters might turn into something more, that they sleep with all these men because they’re really looking for a relationship.

Now I’m not saying there aren’t many cases where a woman gets drunk and ends up going home with a troll. Usually when she sobers up she realizes her poor choice in judgment. And runs home to take not 1, but 2 showers. I’m referring more to the girls who give it up too soon to men who more often than not prove to be unworthy by never getting in touch with them again.

Case in point: My 26-year-old neighbor came over the other day. Background: Lives at home with her mother with 2 daughters under the age of 7 from 2 different baby daddies.

So she came over and said, “I have this huge favor to ask you” to which I immediately answered, “No, I’m not watching your kids.” Because that’s usually what she asks of me, and let me just say right here, I’m so glad I have a boy and not girls; those 2 are loud and chatty and whiney and active.

“No, it’s not that,” she told me. Then she got this sheepish look on her face, and in a hushed tone said, “You know how I just got an IUD put in, right?” Yes, I did know, because my neighbor went in to get her 5^th abortion and the nurse told her (didn’t ask) that she was inserting an IUD during her next visit. “I can’t feel the string that’s supposed to be hanging down from it. The nurse said I’m supposed to check it to make sure it’s hanging down, but…” She held up her fingers and wiggled her 2-inch-long painted nails adorned with rhinestones. “The problem is I can’t get all up in there to find it.”

I stared at her. Finally, I said, “Ummm…” She spoke faster. “I had sex a couple days ago and now I can’t feel the string. I can’t feel the string!” she said in near hysterics. “I can’t get pregnant again! I just can’t!” No argument from me. “I need you to see whether you can find the string and pull it down. Please,” she begged.

“Fine,” I sighed, and followed her to her house. I didn’t actually have a problem with this. I mean, I’m a licensed esthetician, so I’ve had my face in between the legs of women spread-eagled on the table for a Brazilian wax. It’s no big deal. Although having my fingers inside a woman puts a different spin on the whole thing. I’m happy to report that with the donning of a latex glove I soon discovered I knew where everything was from personal experience. And while I had to do some major digging and feeling around inside her that was at times slightly awkward, I managed to find that string, dammit, and pull that sucker down without yanking out the IUD. I would have made an awesome gynecologist.

“Are you sure you felt it? You felt it, right? Are you sure?” I reassured her that I had. “Thank you,” she said.

“I’m just glad I didn’t have to buy you dinner first.”

I stayed a little while afterward and she told me how stupid she felt because she had let herself be used by someone who had sworn it would be different. Uh-huh. How many times have women heard that? We often make the mistake of sleeping with men too soon. Why? They pressure us? We’re horny? We’re afraid we’ll lose them?

Magazine articles claim if you have sex with a man too soon, they’ll lose respect for you, figuring you must do it right away with every man you meet. One of my male friends agrees; another says it’s an antiquated notion. I waited a month before I slept with my ex. I figured if I wanted a serious relationship, then I needed to “send that message.” It worked, but he was also having sex with someone else at the time, so I doubt if it was too big a hardship.

My neighbor became misty-eyed as she told me how much it had hurt that this guy hadn’t responded to any of her calls or texts–my neighbor, who the ONLY time I have seen become warm and fuzzy was when she was pregnant and had more estrogen flowing through her, I suppose. But she was genuinely sad and disillusioned, and tired from it having been done to her many times before.

Hey, I’ve been there. What could I say? Wait 4 weeks before you get naked with a man? Respect yourself more? If they’ve been in prison, they may not be a reliable bet? Pocket their cell phone so they have to get a hold of you?

I have no idea. I’m a gynecologist, not a psychologist.

BAD BOYS MAKE CRAPPY HUSBANDS

Last week a friend of mine claimed that a lot of women were idiots when it came to men, not only for choosing losers, but sticking with them long after they should. There wasn’t really anything I could say to defend myself and my gender, because sadly, he’s right.

I think there are 2 main reasons for why women like bad boys (aka Losers, since I’ve never met a bad boy who wasn’t a loser). One reason is what I like to call the Florence Nightingale Syndrome. Florence Nightingale became a nurse during the 1800s against her family’s wishes. She was from an upper class family and nursing was something people from lower class families did. Now Florence didn’t actually fall in love with any of her patients; she simply cared deeply for them and had a great passion for nursing.

Women who fall in love with bad boys take on the role of caretaker, nurturer, doormat. They think they can change him, make him a “better” person, kiss away the demons that haunt him. They truly believe he’s misunderstood, rough around the edges (with a little TLC we can smooth those out), and been dealt a bad hand in life. They know with all their hearts that he’s simply a victim of circumstances: “If only he didn’t have that bitch ex-wife demanding child support for their 6 kids.” “If only his father hadn’t been an alcoholic womanizer, he might have gone to college, instead of joining a gang.” And the excuses go on and on.

We women love to make excuses for our men. We make excuses for their bad behavior. I did it all the time for my ex. “He didn’t have a proper role model growing up to show him the right way to do things,” I’d tell people. So I took on the task of showing him how to take responsibility for his life. I was 29, and honestly believed men could change with just a little “guidance.” The problem was once I took on the role of caretaker, it became my role for the life of the relationship. The dynamics never changed. So when I popped out my son and suddenly had this little being completely dependent on me 24/7, guess what happened? I didn’t want to take care of a man-boy anymore; I needed him to step up and be 100% man. But because I had always treated him like a little boy, he didn’t know how to be one.

Lesson learned: It’s okay to take care of your man in the kitchen and the bedroom. Other than that, he’s on his own. He has demons? His demonic ass needs to go to therapy. He doesn’t know how to manage money? There’s this beautiful thing called Google—Have him Google “Money Management Skills.” Bitch ex-wife? Try Mediation through the Courts. Felony on his record? You’re on your own for dating him in the first place.

I have since learned to never take on more than I should—life is just too damn hard. I didn’t win any medals for being a super great person. And my ex won’t be at my bedside when I die.

The second reason women fall for bad boys is because they want some excitement in their mundane, bogged-down-by-routine lives. Bad boys are unpredictable. You never know when, or if they’ll show up. And we all know how hot it is to be treated like crap, especially if we’re used to those boring, nice guys, right? And the best part of bad boys? The sex. There’s nothing like passionate, angry make-up sex up against a concrete wall in the middle of a dark alley.

But here’s the thing: The bad boy is so good at sex because 1) He has lots of practice, all the time, with lots of different women, and 2) That’s what he puts his energy toward, instead of a career, education, or cooking classes.

The moral of my diatribe? Bad boys are fun in your 20s (as long as there are condoms involved); They should be used infrequently in your 30s, until you finally realize through lots of therapy that whatever behavior you allow will continue, so you kick him to the curb; And if you’re still dallying with bad boys in your 40s or 50s, you need to think of them like disposable douches—to be used once and then promptly thrown away.

CHAMELEON BARBIE

Ever look back on your youth and realize what a misguided asshat you were? Recall memories that make you inwardly cringe? That’s pretty much how I feel about my entire 20s and 30s when it comes to men. Men I was romantically involved with, that is. I had tons of male friends who all thought I was cool beans; it was when I fell for a man that I became this f*cked-up Stepford, or Chameleon Barbie. You know Chameleon Barbie—she’s the girl who transforms into whatever she thinks her guy wants. The one who doesn’t have an opinion of her own or hobbies unless they’re the same as her love interest.

Yes, I am embarrassed to admit this was me. I attribute it to never having been involved in sports. I always hear how girls who participate in sports have more self-confidence, and they’re so busy with sports that whenever they get asked out by a boy they tell them to “Talk to the hand,” instead. I should have told more guys to talk to the hand, but I was too busy getting my nails done so my hands would look pretty for men.

I don’t know why I felt like I had to change who I was just to impress a man. I suppose I thought he wouldn’t like the real me. The trouble was the person he’d see wasn’t the real me, either. For instance, when I found out my college boyfriend had cheated on me I got it in my mind that what he really wanted was a California “model-type.” So I went out and spent over $300 on clothes I thought he would like—short skirts, skimpy tops, heels, and proceeded to wear them on all our dates (please don’t ask why I still dated him after he cheated on me—that’s a topic for another post). I wore each outfit exactly one time. I had to cash savings bonds to pay for the clothes. Why I thought I had to look like Bimbo Barbie to attract him, I’ll never know. I just thought that if he had cheated on me, he must have wanted something else.

Then there was the guy I dated in Washington D.C. who was involved in politics. The one who always seemed surprised when I said something intelligent or came out with a big word. “You know, you’re really smart,” he’d say, as if he couldn’t believe anyone who looked like me could actually put sentences together. So what did I do to impress him? I ordered a subscription to the New York Times and read it EVERY day. Didn’t matter that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about politics, the fact that I had the paper when he visited me scored me major points as Political Barbie.

Shall I go on? I became the greatest Svengali of all with my son’s father. When we first got together, I honed in on the fact that he was without family and undernourished. So I became Caretaker Barbie, even though I hate to cook. I stocked my fridge with food to fatten him up and I cooked him dinner each and every night, proving to him that I was a nurturing female who would make everything better. Erase all those bad childhood memories and take care of him like his mother never did.

And I had the nerve to bitch years later that he never did anything for me.

Why, oh why do some women do this? Try to be something they’re not simply to impress a man? Men wonder why women change after marriage. Well, if they’re putting on a façade, I would imagine after many years it’s too exhausting to keep up. Case in point—you won’t see me walking around outside in skimpy clothing and heels, I will not engage you in a political debate, and I sure as hell don’t cook dinner every night, not even for my son.

There needs to be a balance between pleasing another while not losing oneself completely. It’s not good to become Submissive Barbie and “take it” like Anastasia in Fifty Shades of Grey if it makes you uncomfortable; nor is telling your love, “Get your ass up and grab it yourself,” when he timidly asks you to pass the salt. No one wants to be around Bitchy Barbie, either.