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Flake? I’ll Be The Judge of That.

flake

I’m typing this in a dark corner of the living room, having been stirred to wakefulness again by a 2018 article about pairing champagne (one of my faves) with french fries. Yummmmm! This my friends, is what keeps me up at night.

After having slipped my love a valium, and being irritated from sleepiness to being wide awake by his snoring, I got up to find some ear plugs. Which took me to the living room, so I could  record notes for a to-do list tomorrow. You know, follow up on doctor’s appointments, what I need to buy at Ikea, reserving my space at yoga classes, and how I’m going to rearrange the spare room and my writing area.  Inevitably I checked my phone, and voila….the social media vortex had me.

Left wing aside here…he knew he was taking the Valium. It’s like an unspoken compromise. Silently it says, “Yes, I will shut up so we no longer have to engage today.”

Tapping out my to do list for tomorrow kinda worked up an appetite, or maybe it was just the  knowledge that there was a Costco sized bag of fully-loaded-nacho-flavoured Doritos in the cupboard. And a mini Flake bar (another personal favourite, this time in the chocolate bar category). All tempting leftovers from when the kiddo was home. Nachos and a piece of butter bread…and the flake. Oh, sweet, sweet, middle of the night carb cravings, have you not had enough of me? Apparently not.

This morning during  CBC interview, it was noted that people with bad short-term memories are actually smarter, because somehow this lack of short term memory makes more room to learn more things and improve long-term memory. My short term memory is absolute shit.

This little radio spot vindicated me. I am not a flake. I am a genius. According to a childhood assessment, I actually am. But that’s a story for another time.

giphy-3It is during these wee hours of the morning when my mind is whirring and I’m trying to capture my lists and ideas that I am at my most creative. I have the most energy for things that really excite me at a soul level (and I’m not talking about the Doritos).  As I take a giant swig of what I thought was iced tea (I’m colour blind – turns out it was some kind of blue jungle juice leftover from the kiddo today), I begin to wonder if I’m the only woman who does this? This middle of the night, burning the candle at both ends life?

I wonder, and every once in a while, I get an answer back from out of the still, middle-of-the-night darkness. It usually comes in the form of a message, or text or a few beautiful lines of poetry. Tonight it was a message from an author whom I admire for more than just their writing style. I admire what they stand for. These are the signs that reassure me I am not alone in my hope, my dreaming, and my creative genius.

Costo. Doritos. Leftover something-juice.  It works. Oh,and so does the valium.

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The Fathoms of Her Mind

battlebrainThe communication neurons between men and women seem to misfire at an alarmingly high rate.

I must admit that I have no idea what makes a man tick beyond a good meal and a good shagging. Perhaps some intelligent dialogue, maybe some seduction, but beyond that, I really have no idea. If I did, I likely would have been able to reel one in by now and get him in the net.

Often a man has arrived at my door seemingly cool as a cucumber, armed with a bottle of wine, bouquet of flowers, or even, appallingly enough, with nothing in hand.

It appears my delicate reader that men only shower, dress and show up.

Not so with women. This post is for the men out there, in an effort to give you some appreciation of our thought-process, and what we do in order to ‘get ready’ to see our deliciously handsome slices of man-pie.

Unfortunately in this day and age, our preparatory regime is often limited by the time we have available. For instance, it’s often a toss up whether we dust, or try on a succession of delicates to wear under our clothing. Often we will opt for  low lighting, and spend our precious time getting our gitch right.

What to wear…that’s a biggie. In order to answer that question, we must ask ourselves more questions; Are we going out or are we staying in? Will we be disrobing, or will we remain clothed? Should I wear a light shirt or a sweater based on how hot I am (not the ambient room temperature)? If we’re going out, which shoes should I wear. I want to be sexy, but not walking like a new-born calf in ultra-high-heels if we have to walk very far.

Then there’s the issue of our hair…Are we going out or staying in? Is there any chance it might get wet, or frizzy from the humidity? Which hair products should I use? I want the style to stay in place, but I don’t want his fingers to stick to it like fly paper. Are my roots showing? Should touch it up, or will I smell like a bottle of ammonia? Should I pack what I need to put it up if it looks like crap wearing it down? Do I need a bigger purse to carry all of my back-up accessories?

Make-up…is it worth it? Is this an entirely indulgent and wonderfully long and well-planned date? Will I need to go for full face with some strategically placed powder? Is this a romp in la sack? If so, I need to go light and waterproof so I don’t come up for air looking like Marilyn Manson’s mother.

Hydration…how much water should I drink beforehand so the wine at dinner doesn’t give me a headache, or the action afterward wear me out?  On the other hand, I don’t want to spend most of the evening in the ladies room either.

Remembering what he said the last time I spoke with him…What’s he up to, what’s important to him? what makes him smile and laugh? These are all very important things, because after all, you wouldn’t be wanting to spend time with someone if his feelings weren’t important. When I’m anxious or excited, I tend to babble incessantly. Remember you were born with one mouth and two ears – shut up and listen darlings.

Transportation…should we drive together or just meet there? Usually this is not a question, we already know the answer. If we are just starting to see one another and don’t know one another well, I tend to air on the side of caution. Get myself there in order to get myself out of there if need be. If we both want a few tipples, perhaps a cab is in order. Do I have the requisite parking available should I choose to entertain said gentleman until the wee hours of the morning?

Manicure (colour and length), pedicure, shade of eyeshadow, shade of lipstick, bra, panties, socks, garters, pantyhose, sandals, shoes, height of heel, jacked or not, purse, required girl-stuff for purse including breath mints, lipstick, hair stuff, phone, money, identification, pants, skirt, shirt, necklace, earrings, watch, bracelet…the list goes on.

So gentlemen, my delightful, wonderful darling men, please understand when we ask where we’re going, we’re asking not because we question your judgment, motives, or means. We are asking so we can be our most radiant, beautiful confident selves and provide you with exquisite company. Humour us a while won’t you?

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Life is a Fridge Magnet Slogan

selfconfidenceHe’s not. Fucking. Worth it.”

As soon as she said it, I pictured the rest of my refrigerator wisdom in the bin, and a big, bold, black and white sign sprawled across the fridge.  Substitute whatever pronoun you need.

Monogamy is a very sad thing to waste. Let me clarify; don’t waste your time on someone who doesn’t appreciate it. Monogamy is for the love of your life, your partner, your confidant, the person you look forward to…every. single. day.

In other words, if they can’t choke out the word commitment or relationship, double up on your contraceptives, and enjoy the ride. Make no promises and  keep an eye out for the next bus to the next town sweetheart.

But you don’t know until you know ,do you? I mean, life and our wonder years are too short and fleeting to let much time pass with the wrong, person. One night stands and sex-only relationships work because they don’t leave anything to the romantic imagination.

furPatience and tolerance for bullshit are traits I have not been blessed with. My very livelihood comes from being straightforward, bold, and not afraid to speak up and stand out.

In the past, I’ve waited, and wondered and whined about the men I’ve been with, waiting for the magic, over-night, I love you, etcetera.

However, after a long, drawn-out, dare I say, ‘shit-show’ of a relationship that sucked almost three good years into the vortex of wasted time (kind of like those hours they figure we spend peeing and commuting), I decided that I was going to go whole hog with this relationship hoo-ha.

weakstrong

I no longer wait and wonder, I just put it out there, and if it comes back to me, super.

If not, I cry in my pillow a bit, cook, drink, have a rebound tussle under the sheets, and carry on.

As it turns out, we all know it’s pretty easy to snag the wrong kind of person. The Friday night guy. The Sunday afternoon guy. The mid-week drink and a puff guy. Whatever your poison, it’s always preferred to snuggle in with Mr. or Ms. Right when you’ve reached a certain age.

It doesn’t get easier to navigate uncharted romantic waters, when in fact, you may  be lost  in Shag-it-for-awhile Bay. But then, it’s not supposed to. What I like to believe is that all the failures make success that much more sweet.

When you put your heart out there ( sooner rather than months and months later, is, in fact, much better for you my darlings), and you don’t get anything back, pull up anchor, and abort the exploration.

As much as I like to believe there is good in everyone, sometimes, when it comes to matters of the heart, “He’s not. Fucking. Worth it.”

You can put that on your fridge honey, and take it to the bank.

 

 

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Don’t Pinch the She-Dragon

"Romantic love is a passionate, spiritual-emotional-sexual attachment between a man and a woman [two people], that reflects a high regard for the value of each other's person." ~Ritu Ghatoury~
“Romantic love is a passionate, spiritual-emotional-sexual attachment between a man and a woman [two people], that reflects a high regard for the value of each other’s person.”
~Ritu Ghatoury~
I really get tired of men complaining about women and how unbalanced the world has become since we’ve demanded educational, professional and wage equity.

Let me be blunt gentlemen; how often do you feel compelled to let someone put warm wax on your testicles and then tear the hair out, just to make your gal’s ride-along more pleasant? Hmm?

I thought so. Unless you want your scrotum to expand and shrivel like a slinky, I’m quite sure you settle for a bit of manscaping and a good scrub.

Usually I don’t mind my monthly  visit to tame the jungle-book-down-under. I  am loyal to my aesthetics guru, and she knows me.

Today when I showed up for my appointment, the receptionist let me know that Maria had been admitted to the hospital last night and was ill. Immediately my first thought was; What’s the appropriate thing to do in this case? Send flowers? Send a card? After all,  Maria was the gatekeeper of my she-dragon, and person in whose delicate hands rested the scales of whether or not I would be the lounging, sensual recipient of the skillful cunninglingus of which I have become accustomed.

In other words, she plays a huge role in my ability to enjoy life to the fullest. Maria also guards the secret identity of the little-man-in-the-boat,  whereas even my most intimate of lovers only gets to view the magician by candlelight, or the shadow of my thighs.

After disrobing, and stretching out on the waxing table, ‘Quiny’, as she introduced herself began the most painful, ridiculous bikini wax I have ever had, and I’ve been doing this for a while folks.  I’m quite sure the first layer of skin on the left side of my veil-of-pleasure is still stuck to her last waxing strip, but was afraid to look.

If an aesthetician has to ask, “That hurt you”, more than once, the outcome may be gruesome.

To her credit, Quiny was good with a mirror and asked on several occasions that I look and make sure she was doing a good job. I began to wonder about Quiny’s motives.

I also thought that perhaps having my woo-hoo waxed immediately prior to an hour and a half long sitting-mediation at the temple was not such good planning.

Finally, after what seemed like  hours at the hand of Quiny-the-Torturer, I sat up on my elbows, looked down at my  girly-bits and said, “That’s enough”.

The pain was so intense that I wasn’t sure whether she was pinching or pulling, and I sure as hell didn’t know what she could possibly be pinching or pulling at. I was convinced my outer labia had already been ripped off and tossed in her little white trash can.

Quiny held the mirror up, “You look”, she said. And she smiled. I’m not a violent woman, but I wanted to smack that smile off her face with that ridiculous mirror like I was using a squash raquet.

“I’m sure it’s just fine,” I said, quickly squeezing my thighs together.   I made a mental note to go see my regular Goddess of the Wax tomorrow at the hospital and take on advocating for her medical care.

So gentlemen, don’t give me any bitching or moaning about having to act like a gentleman to garner the attention of a lady.  Real ladies care about what they bring to a relationship, including a neat and tidy valley of delight.

The next man I hear whining is being sent to Quiny so she can have a go at your hairy man-bits. Then we’ll talk.