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See Ya!

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“Well every woman should try to be whatever her man wants her to be.” (Marvin Gaye)


I have a better suggestion. Perhaps every woman should try to be whatever the hell she wants to be. And if that’s not what you want, don’t be doggone.

Be long gone.


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…

There’s Nothing Wrong with You That Being You Won’t Fix

This morning I relaxed by curling up in my recliner — steaming mug of coffee (well, actually, it was whipped cream with a little token coffee) in hand — to watch an old episode of one of my favorite TV dramas, The Good Wife. Two of the characters were huddled at a bar, but I lost interest in them when a woman at the end of that bar — obviously mid break-up — began sobbing. A part of my heart broke as she moaned: “What’s wrong with me?” For a moment I wanted to just hold her, comfort her…

…but it was fleeting. Fortunately, one of us came to my senses as I desperately wanted the technology to zap myself through the screen that separated us and slap the shit out of her!

What’s wrong with you?

Like so many others of us, you define yourself by what some man wants you to be — or what you think he wants you to be. Instead of being who you are — who you want to be — and you contort yourself to fit into his jigsaw puzzle. You suppress your thoughts, your opinions and your desires to immerse yourself in his. You abdicate self-ownership to be his property. You cease to exist as your own unique person and become just another of his appendages.

What is wrong with you is that you’ve convinced yourself there is something wrong with you.

Many years ago, one of my friends entered an “unbelievable” relationship. He was quite successful and a real hottie — one of those men who still had hair on his chest and balls in his shorts. I’d have jumped him myself. But she was a bit overweight; she felt dumpy and unattractive. She didn’t understand his interest. They’d dated for awhile and he’d never made any attempt to move the relationship forward. She assumed her weight was the stumbling block; maybe he wanted someone thinner and more ‘beautiful.’ So, she began dieting and exercising. Thirty pounds later she was healthier, more energetic — she was even more dynamic; she came out of her shell. She seemed happier. Then, as the pounds continued to disappear, so did his attentions. She became depressed and started eating her way back into his heart. Unfortunately, it worked. I often wonder what would have happened had she continued on that path that seemingly brought her to life. What if she’d continued being the person who made her happy? Would she have attracted someone who was into her — as her? Could she have been vibrant, happy, alive and celebrating herself and her good health with someone who could appreciate her exactly as she was?

Men, I can’t fault you for this one; you’re off the hook. I have to lay the blame squarely at our feet as women. Ladies, make your first priority — you. Be who you are. Be who you want to be. Don’t try to make yourself someone you’re not so you can make yourself ‘his.’

Trust me, it’s not worth it.

Coup d’ Twat

Rather than being offended, we simply must remember that the brain many men utilize when ‘flirting’ is language-, respect-, and decorum-challenged. The near-paralyzed BigHead is convinced by LittleHead that the latter’s crude, boorish attempts to share itself are compliments.

Someday — albeit, perhaps, not in our lifetimes — BigHead will prevail and men will get it.

Until then they will get “it,” but only from those women whose self-worth doesn’t venture beyond “it.”

RAWWRRR! Bring It On!

Slowly, and almost invisibly, they began their assault. First two – then a third and a fourth – I easily dispatched them and whisked the poor souls along the expressway to their afterlives.

And it was done…

…or so I thought. Only moments later, I was embroiled in a full scale invasion!

They were everywhere! Mouth agape, I watched in horror as they marched forward, attacking from points I would only have imagined they’d have found.  As the battlefield grew black…and blacker…and blacker, I realized a physical fight would leave me vanquished.  So I scoured my meager resources, set traps to slow the onslaught – and retreated.

As morning dawned, I carefully – and oh, so stealthily – approached so as to not alert them to my return.

But they were gone. Only remaining were those who’d drowned lapping up the sugary concoction – laced with Borax – with which I’d merely hoped to slow their onslaught until I could call an exterminator.

I am woman; hear me roar!

Ants fear me!

And I’m kicking me some spider ass next!

Who the hell needs a man?

Coming Soon To a Bedroom Near You

I think we each have our “happiness pattern,” the things we do/say/love that make us smile. And there’s someone–actually, many someones–whose happiness pattern is compatible with ours. This is not another person who ‘completes’ us (sorry, romance writers, we’re already complete exactly as we are). This is another–also complete exactly as they are–who, in combination with us, makes for one kick-ass whole.

I know my someone is looking for me, just as I seek him. And we will find each other. But in the meantime, I’m celebrating me!

Me! Me! Me! It’s all about me!

For now…


Apparently, I’ve received the neighborhood seal of approval on the improvements to my home. My next door neighbor stopped me this morning to compliment the work.

My trailer park mailbox — the one that habitually fell over at the slightest breeze — has been replaced by a stuccoed concrete block monolith. A beautiful Moroccan porch light glows in the home formerly occupied by the motion-sensitive light that only flashed passing cars. And the matching sconces flanking the garage welcome me home each evening.

But he’s especially impressed with the new open air sitting room and the other work I’ve done in the back yard.

I smiled broadly as I imagined what my home’s facelift had likely done for the property values in our little neighborhood.

But my face’s sunshine quickly morphed into the deep purple-gray Chambourd covering my front door. I strongly suspect what I perceived as appreciation of my new patio was a hint that tending its garden in my T-shirt and granny panties every morning had not gone unnoticed.