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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?


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

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.”


“People in love aren’t usually noted for using their brains.”

Perry Mason
in Erle Stanley Gardner’s The Case of the Fiery Fingers

Oh, No O.


Oh, yeah…Oh…Oh! Oh my God! Oh!

Yes! Oh, yes! Ohhhh!

Yes…oh, yes!

Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh! Oh! Oh!

Ohhhhhhhhhh, yes!

Yes! Yesssssss!



Three weeks ago – feeling quite brazen, at that moment, in all my feminist bravado – I arranged to enjoy an evening at the performance of a popular male exotic dance revue, The Thunder from Down Under, visiting Simi Valley. Indeed the little PD on my right shoulder was shocked and scandalized they’d be performing in our conservative, three-Wal*mart town. But the devilish diva bending my left ear was doing backflips. For days leading up to the event my friend Janice and I posted about the wild and wanton evening we’d planned as we encouraged other women to join our liberated band of vixen voyeurs.

More than a full hour before the opening curtain we gathered in the parking lot. This itself was unusual because I’m never early for anything. My daughter jokes that PD Standard Time is T+ oh-are-you-there-already? But not tonight, honey.

“Reserved seating or general admission?” The difference in price was less than the cost of a couple of my favorite Starbucks Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccinos. In the millisecond I pondered my options, the club’s owner approached and clarified: “What she means, ladies, is sweat or no sweat?”

Moments later we took our seats at our damn-near-onstage tables, ordered our dinner – nachos smothered in beef and cheese, dripping with guacamole – and a little something with which to wash them down — and loosen our inhibitions.

The music went up as the lights went down. Donning my cloak of invisibility, I sank into my seat as half a dozen spectacular, semi-nude Roman centurions swung their swords as they rhythmically writhed and caressed their glistening bodies onstage. After a few moments they descended into the audience. Suddenly I found my glasses – the better with which to see their uh, pecs, my dear – being smashed into my face as the hands behind my head shoved it into a firm – okay, very firm…and lumpy – silken cushion. All I could do was wrap my arms around my captor, grab and hold on for the grind – excuse me – the ride.

Although the security of my invisibility had been breached, I whispered a quick ‘thank you’ to my guardian angels both at the pleasure of the face-full of sweaty, musky testosterone – as well as the fact my ‘humiliation’ was over at the beginning of the show. Normally, I’m not chosen for this type of thing anyway — this time was a fluke — but now I could truly sit back and relax.

Midway through the show, the emcee announced he wanted a trio of women who enjoyed a challenge to come up on stage. I sat back in my chair and relaxed, as neither his golden surfer locks nor his come-hither eyes ignited my volunteer spirit. From the other end of the room he led two lambs (well, okay, they were as innocent as lambs can be at a male strip show) to the slaughter. Suckers. Then he paced back to center stage and pointed.


In total shock and disbelief – and feeling utterly betrayed by my guardian angels – I pointed at myself and mouthed “Me?”

“Yes, you!” Okay, his beckoning eyes didn’t do it, but my resistance dissipated at the Aussie accent that escaped that disarming smile. Good thing we weren’t alone or my resistance might not have been the only thing that melted.

“Come on up here!” Against my better judgment, and in fear of being seen as a party-pooper, I joined the other two contestants.

“Okay. We’re going to have a little competition tonight. I’m going to have the three of you do something. Then we’re going to let the audience vote and decide which of you gave the best performance.”

And the Oscar went to…me!

Who’d have thought fifteen years of fake orgasms would ever pay off?

Just Click Your Heels Together Three Times And Repeat After Me

… if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard; because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with. Dorothy Gale, Wizard of Oz

Her hair is graying – it reminds you of a November morning’s clouds. Why doesn’t she color it? A little Botox would take care of those wretched crevices around her mouth and the corners of her eyes.  And – mother of all beastly grotesque horrors – that twenty pounds she’s put on over the years would disappear if she’d just take her fat ass to the gym. You’re a man; a man has needs. If she’d just made a little effort, you wouldn’t have had to meet them elsewhere.

Did you ever notice how that silver tinsel in her hair caught the sunlight and sparkled back at you? Do you remember how she laughed and laughed – and laughed – at your jokes? Even when you both knew you weren’t really that funny, the melody with which she rewarded you – accompanied, of course, by those little wrinkles – always tempted you to grunt and beat your chest. Despite her many other obligations each day, she managed to spend hours in the kitchen preparing a magic show for your tongue and, yes, she sat down and enjoyed it with you. As a result there’s now so much more of her – uh, twenty pounds — to love.

Poor thing. You didn’t see the mature beauty that was your garden. You didn’t enjoy the heady fragrance that surrounded you each day. Tending your own roses was so much work; why bother when younger buds were practically falling at your feet? How were you to know that they’d never bloom – that they wouldn’t give you that which you already had in abundance yet failed to appreciate? I’m so sad for you.

But I’m ecstatic that she kicked your ass to the curb and found someone who’s loving what you lost.

Neener. Neener. Neener.

Binders Full of Men?

“Really good men are all from my daddy’s generation and the only ones left are too old even for me. If you’re lucky enough to find one, you’ll never get any. If he even remembers he has that thing all he’s going to be doing with it is letting you change its diaper.” Such — according to she-who-knows-all (known more familiarly as my mother) — is the state of the current husband material pool.

I was horrified at the sudden realization that I’d been in the workforce for over fifty years. Now the thought of spending my days in front of my Viking — expanding the waistline of a very appreciative sweetheart instead of at my computer expanding my firm — is so tempting. However, you-know-who has taken her foot-long virtual hat pin and splattered bubble residue all over my dreams.

That is, before tonight’s presidential debate rekindled the flame on my candle of hope. After yet another of my ten-hour days, I collapsed onto the sofa, flipped on my television and there I found my savior — strong of jaw, steely of eyes, bold and powerful — oozing vinyl concern across the middle of my screen.

Oh, Mittens, you’ve pulled something out of your magic bag for everyone! Have you something left for me? Perhaps a few binders full of muscular, testicled prospects through which I can let my perfectly manicured fingers do the walking?

Social Security, here I come …