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Tacos with John Mayer

taco truckI was in New York City last night with John Mayer. I adore his music. This summer I’m headed out to my very first Dead and Company show, all the way south of our beautiful Canadian border.

Anyway, about last night. John, myself and a bunch of pals were at a buddy’s place in the city, and we were all jonesing for some tacos. I suggested a taco truck that I remembered was a short walk away from the apartment- kinda close to Times Square, but far enough away that it wasn’t right in the mix. It was this funky little truck, painted high gloss black with a scrolling white logo that took up the entire side. It looked neat, tidy, and clean; all good things when it comes to street food.

We all got a little side tracked just before we were going to head out. Someone handed me the most pudgy, little, white, kitten, and it was all I could do to put it down. I just had to have a cuddle, so I sat down, right where I was standing, and let the little guy stretch out on my lap for a belly rub.

The guys couldn’t resist. They all gathered around and bent down to give the little guy a pet. Some of the guys were  naked, (if the kitten weren’t so cute, I would have been distracted by their junk wiggling in my face). Whatever. I had a roly kitten to snuggle. Once you’ve seen a dude’s wiggler, there’s not much else you can be distracted by…except kittens. Hey, I’m over 40, I only wanna see the junk of men I adore, thank you very much.


Wait, where was I? The kitten…??? What happened to the naked guys? Where did John Mayer go during this whole kitten and men’s pubic hair fiasco? Why on earth was I bothering to go get tacos when just last week I vowed I’d had my fill of tacos for life? What I really wanted was a couple of really yummy authentic pork tamales. Oh, and that damn noise to stop….

…my alarm…

Turns out I wasn’t with a  kitten and a bunch of well-hung naked men. John Mayer was defo not just at the door putting his sneakers on to go find a taco truck with me in New York City.  Waking up to reality can really suck, especially when you’ve just been in NYC with your musical fave, fat kittens, naked men, and the promise of a really good taco.

Ah well….a lady can dream.

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The Ultimate Destination


The fair Port of Not Giving a Shit.

It’s a fabulous destination I think I should  visit more often. It’s as near as a tub full of steamy bath water, or a lawnchair under the shade of an older than old maple tree.

After a while, it takes less time to get there, and it’s further away from where you started.

Being a ‘Woman of a Certain Age’, I know that I’ve settled some deep unconscious niggling when I arrive there, completely unattached and content.

It took me years to realize that relationships are not what I wish them to be. They are what they are, whether it’s a friendship, a job, or a lover.  I used to live in the fantasy of the potential I saw, and end up being disappointed with the reality as it failed to blossom into that ever-optimistic-potential that I fantasized about so often.

Le sigh indeed my darlings.

But it’s not a bad ‘le sigh’. It’s just le sigh. A ‘le sigh’, as in, ‘oh well, pour me another please, and don’t be shy’.

Ever the optimist, I like to believe in people. I like to believe that people are, at their most basic element, good, just, and loving.

Although I refuse to budge from that perspective, I have learned to accept that sometimes, despite potential, people are assholes. Pardon my French…perhaps I should say…no, wait, they’re just assholes.

So, tonight, as I kicked back with an icy, sparkling, wine spritzer, I  found myself snuggly harboured in the Port of Not Giving a Shit. And I liked it there.

Why don’t you come by and say hello?

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And Then He Kissed Me

Situations such as this, a man about to kiss a...
Situations such as this, a man about to kiss a woman who is in bed in her nightgown (Warren William and Ann Dvorak from Three on a Match), were one of the things the Production Code took aim at. After 1934, a scene such as this would not be seen in a Hollywood film for decades. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve been having one of those weeks for a couple of years now. You know what I mean. Those weeks.

The kind of week that bleeds into a couple of years, a bigger waist size, and earlier bedtimes. Don’t turn your back on me darling, I know you have them too.

Even though the stretches of mundane-doldrums seem to get longer as we get older, there are still opportunities for spontenaity, and dare I say affairs of the heart?

Last night I had a most-harlequin-inspired experience. A tall, dark and handsome past love of mine showed up on my cool, crips, fall doorstep.  I used to joke around with one of my past hot-lovers that unless Mr. Wonderful came knocking on my door I would likely not be meeting anyone to share the joy of my smouldering feminine side.

But last night, it happened.  I was fresh from a hot soak, and a very generous glass of bourbon. I had spent a full hour pampering myself, shaving the picky bits, polishing the smooth bits, and getting lost in past escapades with my yummy lovers.

I had settled into a fresh nightie, and was cozied up in the duvet with a thick book, and another helping of Kentucky’s finest when I heard a knock at my patio door.  Had I been completely and utterly sober, I likely would have held my breath and panicked at who might be waiting on the other side of the dark door.

Under the circumstances, I was about as mellow as a girl can get before fading into dreamland, and without a thought I jumped up and brushed the blinds aside, peering out into the darkness.

On the other side was one of the fine specimens who had crawled into my memory earlier,  with his charming smile, warm lips and hot thighs.

Under the circumstances, my mind did not leap to, “What the hell are you doing here?”, or wondering if he had come to inform me of some sexually transmitted disease that would render my tender bits a festering wound of death.  Instead, I opened the door.

“I missed you,” he said, right before he stepped inside and wrapped me in a wonderfully passionate embrace complete with warm, wet, kisses and a hard hello on the other side of his trousers.

Pretty freaking amazing isn’t it my darlings? Pretty hot!

Also, pretty freaking unlikely my innocent little bundles of apple crisp. 

If you’re in a bit of a rut like me, if your cynical side has wrestled your romantic girly-girl into begging-uncle submission, I suggest you remember all of the wonderful, gentle, sexy and kind men out there who are looking for a classy gal like you.

Go ahead, get out there. Drag yourself to the café, to the fair, to the party…it’s true, Mr. Wonderful won’t likely come knocking at your door. You’ll have to find him yourself.

But just in case, never go to bed ugly.

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Confessions of a Gallery Junkie

Musee Rodin - Adam
Musee Rodin – Adam (Photo credit: John Kroll)

You all know by now that I adore my time spent at the local art gallery.

I have been blessed by the art gods, or pan-sexual-life-affirming gods (whomever inspires you my darlings), to live near a world-class gallery.

I spend many a Sunday afternoon sipping wine in the  member’s lounge, chatting to fellow artists, wanna-be artists, or perhaps just myself, Moleskine and smooth writing pen in hand.

Some days I write pages, and other days the page holds out its fabulously, gnarled hand and won’t let me write a damn thing.

Most of all, beyond my nine-to-five life, the gallery feeds the flame of my creativity.

The art feeds my imagination, and what, pray tell,  my sweet, tender ,figs, would an artist be without imagination?

My top ten fantasies inspired by the AGO

1) I finally find that flowing scarf that never snags, flops into my soup, or makes my voluptuous ass look big. I also find the perfect sexy boot that doesn’t make me sound like a Clydesdale clopping across the sacred silence of gallery space.

2) I am bent over the knee of Rodin’s Adam, being shagged mercilessly by a very determined lover. He must be virile and skilled enough to finish the entire job before we get tossed out of my Eden of art forever. Preferably he speaks no English. Better yet, he doesn’t speak at all.

3) All of the books that whet my insatiable appetite for the exchange of ideas are priced reasonably, and I meet a man across the crowded, over-priced gift shop who is as hungry for intellectually stimulating intimacy as I am. (Hopefully this one speaks English, but with a sexy Irish brogue, or French yum-yum-accent).

I’m afraid that sums it up. I know lovey, I know, I did say there were ten fantasies, but I can’t share the rest with you. I’m saving them for someone special.

The gallery inspires me to creative, lustful, philosophy. It’s as simple as that. The other seven fantasies are for that yummy man, whom I meet as he sizes up my books and I size up his, er, um….anyway, our, eyes lock across the crowded bookstore/coffee shop/gallery/coat check/gate/pub/studio, and I know he’s the lucky one.