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One Is Good; Two, Even Better

One Is Good; Two, Even Better

“Mmmm…Butter Pecan or Chocolate Praline? Oh, my – I love them both; how do I choose only one? What the hell, I can’t. Just give me two scoops – one of each – please.”

“You know, teal is one of my favorite colors; I have so many suits with which I can pair that shirt. But the maroon is absolutely gorgeous on me, as well. It brings out the mahogany undertones of my complexion. I’ll take them both. Thank you.”

“Hanukkah…or Christmas? My girls and I are Jewish. But the rest of the family calls that other holiday ‘the reason for the season.’ However, celebration is a good thing – you know, the more the merrier! We do both.”

My name is PD…and I’m a double-dipper.

So many women go to incredible lengths to find the loves of their lives – bars, online dating sites, friends. They dress up to impress and dress down to do bugs, dirt and sleep on the ground. They color, cut, weave. They torture themselves with jeans so tight they can’t breathe (in the hope they will take his breath away), stilettos they pray won’t drop them on their asses and even – ugh – underwire bras to make their headlights flash their high beams. All this for…him. That one love who’ll enhance their existence and make their hearts sing.

And some of us double-dip.

Very early in my life, in fact, I’d just barely tipped over that line marking the age of majority, I found Mr Right. He was that proverbial tall, dark and handsome man of mystery hiding behind a bushy mustache and beneath a bright red “sly hat” that made me giggle. His mind was even more brilliant than that hat; on each date we solved another of the world’s many problems. We shared the same values. And together we double-dipped in the progeny pool; we created two phenomenal daughters. His loss was devastating; the world will never know what it missed, but our girls and I know all too painfully well.

Convinced I’d never fall in love again, I was blindsided years later when another proverbial tall, dark and handsome man of mystery hiding behind a bushy mustache entered my life. We shared the same values, the same profession and he made me laugh, despite the absence of a floppy red hat. At that first of many meetings, he sat across from me at my desk and delineated what he expected my role to be – as I let him know what it would be. Mr Intractable resisted my persistent attempts to set him up with my single girlfriends, as he had other plans. He convinced me to remove my shell and take that second dip in love’s pond. Alas, he is also no longer with us, but the love he left in his wake daily lifts me, makes my toes tingle…and my heart sing.

And all I can say to the universe is “Thank you, Thank you.”

My True Love? Me.

A friend posted this photo to my FaceBook feed today; it puzzled me. Why would the first day of Christmas be different from any other? On that day, as I do every day, I’ll give myself — me.



A blustery, biting Simi Valley night…holiday lights dancing…mellifluous wind chimes caroling…tootsies toasting in front of the blazing hearth.

What a perfect night for a double dose of hot chocolate:  rum-spiked Valrhona cocoa and a Rosewood marathon.



Oh, the talent…the skill…the passion. A friend shared an incredible musical performance to my Facebook feed this morning. As I watched and appreciated the moans, squeals and screams the cellists’ fingers coaxed from their stringed lovers, all of me fantasized only one thing…

…and now I need a smoke.


Was It As Good for You As It Was for Me?

Old Bitch, New Tricks

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There is clearly a bone-biting chill whooshing through hell this morning.

I am my own woman; I dress for me. What is fashionable is irrelevant. What coordinates well with whatever else is of no import. Which designer duds will make my girlfriends pickle-up with envy does not make my clit twitch. Whatever speaks to Bertha Butt and whispers “you’re going to feel really good in me today”  is what comes out of my closet. As long as it passes the sniff test and it’s absent spots on the boobage, off we go.

As I dressed for work this morning (on a casual Saturday, no less), I mused “wonder if I’ll run across — as opposed to my usual over — any interesting men today?” Lula, my subconscious (you met her in See I Told You So), whispered “I can make that happen for you, dahling.

So, I — Ms Rabidly-independent-I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass-what-you-think — caved.

And I dressed accordingly.

I’m melting! Oh, what a world…what a world…

Brains! Less Brains!?

I’m one of the fortunate ones. Twice in my life I’ve found men who valued the big I’s — intelligence and independence — over goo-goo eyes. Unfortunately, those two great men — sufficiently confident in their own masculinity to not only refrain from shackling me, but to encourage my flight — are no longer with us. I am single. But having been so blessed already, I’m not holding my breath awaiting lightning’s third strike.

Charming the prince’s tighty-whities off in exchange for half his kingdom has never been one of the tools in my box. I’d much rather engage in a spirited debate than to smile, flutter my eyelashes and pretend a man is smarter than he is. If he really wants me to respect his mind (and, trust me, this comes long before I give a rat’s crack about his money or his dangling mini-me), his work is cut out for him — and he knows this at the outset. I’m not going to roll over and spread my legs because I need what’s in his wallet. I don’t. And so many of my contemporaries are much the same. We’ve decided that we’re enough — and that if a good man wants to join us — that works. But we won’t devalue ourselves to make it happen.

Following is a fabulous piece I read this evening. I have no clue how to “reblog,” so I’ll just post the link for you.


Ladies, The Smarter You Are,
The More Likely You Are To Be Single


“Piss on all my exes!”

The stick figure held his tiny twig and a stream shot forth across the rear window, presumably showering the women who dared reject the gleaming white Cadillac’s driver.

I wondered if he had a Ms Current — and if she was soon to be bathing in his imaginary golden waterfall.

If so, why? Whose self-image is so lacking she hangs on his arm?

And, if not, has he considered that his advertisement could be the reason only his hand keeps him warm at night?