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Category Archives: Independence

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.


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.


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

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.

Honey, You’re in the Wrong Mall

“As long as you’re doing all your shopping in Simi Valley, you will continue to find nothing better than Walmart and Target. If you want Lord & Taylor and Nordstrom, you’re going to have to hit the 118 and look outside this little box you call home.”

My daughter’s partner is a phenomenal project manager; she’s put herself in charge of managing my acquisition of a new victim husband. Over the best blackberry martini I’ve ever guzzled, she is mapping his route to my bedroom. I need all the help I can get; doing this on my own has been an abysmal failure. I tried the dating sites; twat solicitation is brisk on the internet. But in addition to what’s between my legs, there’s even more between my ears. Unfortunately, the latter is an electronic deal breaker. I’ve had some interesting introductions by friends. I think some 1950s mailman very generously sowed his wild oats; I’d swear my ex and all his ‘bros’ dropped like dead-ass leaves from the same slacker tree. So, I’ve spent the past year or so just doing the things I enjoy. My thought was that, at the very least, I’ll have had a good time. That route’s actually been quite fruitful; I have met some incredible guys. They’re like really good girlfriends…but with penises.

“Not only is the pool of eligible men in Simi Valley too small, it’s stocked with minnows not even worthy of your catch and release program. They’re looking for women who need them, who’ll make them feel like men. But you don’t need a man; you can take care of yourself.  You just want a man – one whose testosterone flows freely, one who already knows he’s a man. However, instead of shopping for Ferragamos at Bloomingdale’s, you’re scouring the shelves for them at the Dollar Tree.”

I suppose this is what’s meant by things coming full circle. It starts when our kids want to know where we’re going/with whom/when we’ll be home/if we’ll be sleeping alone. When my girls were younger, those were my lines; I miss them. I fear this is gently guiding me down the road to “Mom, let’s talk about nursing homes.”

“Considering that big fat check you send your last Kmart bargain every month, you might want to set your sights a little higher this time.”


“So, let’s get this show on the road. Why shop at Sears when you want Saks? Why buy at Big Lots when you deserve Bergdorf’s? Why knock around at the 99 Cents Store when Neiman Marcus is more on your level?

Now what’s your first step and by when will you take 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?