Holidays Are Not For Children.

I absolutely love this most wonderful time of the year. Seriously.

When you have crossed the burning sands, you become guilt free in the knowledge that you are finally, FINALLY  grown and therefore not hostage to the dreaded holiday-fun-hell-fest. 

The purchase of the three foot high twelve inch wide delivery not included $ 5000.00 tree; the agonizing search for that perfect unexpected thoroughly hinted at 'gift'; attending family dinners that are not Rockwellian as much as they are real housewivey (upending the dining room table is always a nice touch though). 

I know what you are thinking. You simply can't 'opt out'. You can't let everyone down. What about your responsibility to your parents/spouse/children? Everyone depends on familiarity, everyone depends on an absolute sameness/order of events, everyone depends on YOU. The proverbial decorative martyr glue that holds it all together. 

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. 

Look, children are resilient. Plus, those little bastards don't really believe in Santa Claus. What they do believe is that SOMEONE is gonna buy them SOMETHING to make sure they have the 'best Christmas EVER'.  Your parents and spouses/significant others? They are equal parts pissed and jealous for they now become the purchasers/wrappers/schedulers/transporters/psuedo merrymakers. 

Consider this your 'light bulb moment'.

The holidays now represent your 'Get Out of Holiday Hell Free' pass. A pass on going to the pilatesflyingyogasoulcycle class; a pass on drinking responsibly (what does that even mean); a pass on angrily putting on spanx cause really? spanx is no match for the holiday eating that is about to take place; a pass on keeping your inappropriate behaviour to yourself. Share it with others and become the darling of the twittering faceless instagramming social media clique. 

Get over the internal guilt. Ignore the sharp cries of people hanging onto your legs pleading, begging you. Let your muffin top become a cake top. Break out those stretchy pants. Truly, fully begin to enjoy the holiday season in the way it was really meant to be: happily two fisting your way through the ho ho ho's and the merry merry merry's landing flat on your face or flat on your back with no memory of what occurred.

Jingle bells baby.


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

You Will Still Have To Fight For Your Right To Be A Woman.

As per my previous musings, being a woman in this decade is full of spice, vinegar, tears and laughter. You will finally become the person you were always meant to be. You will become the sexiest, most loving, most confident, most empowered you you have ever been. You will become the fierce warrior woman with the soft appealing touch.

But, I am sorry to tell you that others will find this unacceptable. Not only professionally, some cases personally but on a grander stage, politically.

I live in the USA where women have equal rights. Okay, not exactly (can we talk about equal pay?) but we do possess the right to continue to demand them, argue for them, fight for them. We remain more fortunate than women in some other countries.

Our biggest fight is on the political stage. These are the individuals who determine whether we take two steps forward or a lifetime back. And during an election year, it almost becomes a matter of a real life or a sub par life.

And that is why during this election, I am working to keep the Man who is in office, in Office. For President Obama has taken the issues that pertain specifically to me as a woman to heart. Note:

* The POTUS signed into law the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act.

* The POTUS has consistently fought attempts to defund Planned Parenthood, one of the largest providers of women's health services in this country.

* The POTUS stands by Roe v. Wade.

* The POTUS has tripled the amount of women on the Supreme Court. For the first time ever, there are now three (count 'em THREE) women on the bench.

* General health care in which women's preventive care - such as birth control, mammograms, cancer screenings - are available with no co-pays or deductibles.

* The POTUS has increased funding to enforce the Violence Against Women Act.

* The POTUS created the White House Council on Women and Girls to support fair treatment in all areas of public policy.

President Obama is the closest thing to an actual woman in the oval office until there is an actual Woman in the Oval Office. And for this, in addition to many many other reasons, I continue to stand with him.

Especially for the next four years.

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish) 

I Am Grown Enough To Hate. Which Is A Good Thing.

You are taught as a toddler that hate is a strong word: "you should NEVER EVER use that word it's NOT a nice word" finger wagging in your face as you stand horrified wringing your tiny hands on the verge of tiny tears. Oh sesame street, what have I done WRONG??

Not a damn thing. You were just too young.

Hate is not a bad word nor a bad emotion. I can think of a million things worse that you can say or do. Hate  is the way in which you cement your dislikes for people, places and things. And let us be frank: at this point you have been around long enough to know that what you like you really love; and what you dislike you really hate. And well, it better watch out.

Yes, yes, yes, I have experienced the old 'hate is really just love' scenario. If you express so much hate for something or someone since you are experiencing that emotion it really means that you love it or them and that it or them still means something to you.

Ah...no.

It means that you are human. It means that you are taking the necessary steps to purge the thing or person from your system in a well deserved rage. It is once that rage settles, once that pot stops boiling, the beginning of that slow muted simmer...ah yeah...that's some good slow cooking hate.

It's not all 'aaarrgghhh' and 'gggrrrrll'. Sometimes it's humorous. Really. Two sides of the same coin.

On the frivolous side:
Gummy bears (Weird colors too sugary too rubbery takes a year and a freakin' day to chew then stays stuck in your back teeth. And why bears?); salad (it's cow food people. COME ON.); an abundance of pennies in my wallet; people who spit and blow snot out of their nose in public; teens teens teens; freshly baked bread with a burnt bottom; cheap perfume and the people who expose me to it; neighbors having loud sex when I ain't having any.

On the serious side:
Reaching the last drop of wine in the bottle when I am still thirsty; people who display a lack of compassion; being addicted to cigarettes and liking it; the loss of seasons in my City; men who cheat and lie in a relationship; not laughing enough everyday; being made to feel 'less' based on my sex my hair my size the color of my skin; feeling older than I am.

These hates don't create a knot in the pit of my stomach or make me stressed out. It is more a feeling of self induced calm. Stamped and filed under ' it is what it is', I have the unfettered ability to deal with being fabulously fourtyish in a more focused and clear manner.  Hate does a mind, body and spirit good.

Namaste.



xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

It's My Birthday. And I Ain't Crying.

Dear Readers,

Todays date is the cause for equal parts sentimental messages tempered with bawdy overtones (for those who love me) and burning me in effigy while chanting in a circle (for those who despise me):

It's my Birthday.

And my simple wishes are such:
Good meal.
Good drinks.
Belly laughs.
Get laid.

Despite having the most fucked up year of my life in every way imaginable (and I do mean EVERY way), I feel friggin' great.

And in this moment in this time of my life,  I am fond of the past, realistic in the present and dream for my future. For while a lot of time has been spent, I still have a large bank of it to use.

I will honor my Mother and my Father who conjoined to give me life by celebrating this day to the full extent of its offered 24 hours in every inappropriate way imaginable. But always 100% me.

So when you see me today and think "dear Lord" followed by eye rolling, know that it will end soon. (Seriously, I am fourty something...)

Just enjoy the show while you can. I will.


XO,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Where The Hell Is ' Aunt Flow'?

Every woman has an Aunt like I do. Uptight upright forcefully peering at you over her pinched glasses who, even though unloved and uninvited, would arrive wherever I lived at the same time for the same number of days every month for years on end smiling maniacally while causing pain and havoc at the most inopportune times ('gonna get my groove on' big date, white bathing suit vacation, form fitting dress up event). 

I call her 'Aunt Flow'. And she comes with party favours. 

The headaches, the ever present sensation of wanting to puke, wearing stretchy pants because I cannot get into my jeans, unquenchable thirst for water water anywhere, the jonesing 'yo man, you got a Hersheys bar? a m&m?', the unexpected emotional outbursts preceded by swiveling my head 360 degrees while shooting foul language at anyone who dared ask, "Are you okay?".

You would think with an Aunt like this, it would be a welcome relief when her visits became less frequent. The ability to wear white lace panties for instance. But instead of thanking the Gods, when Aunt Flow started to become sporadic and unpredictable I honestly became weirdly concerned.

When younger, while yes hellish, her visits did bring some heaven. Her humor was such that sometimes She would arrive much later than expected knowing her absence would cause a feverish panic, a late night run to any drugstore, some peeing on a stick with the oft quoted prayer ('I swear to God, if You get me out of this...'). And when She laughingly did show, I did breathe (angrily) easier. 

Then as I became more 'mature', I finally started to appreciate the gift She had been bringing me for years: the promise of new life. A reminder that I was a supreme goddess who ruled over my kingdom called 'Uteri':  the lush, fertile land of milk and honey, honey.  As long as my partner was a willing participant, as long as we agreed that it was time to seed, I was ripe for the planting. 

I could always set my calendar to Her arrival date. So Her recent unpredictability is slightly alarming. 

She gave no notice. Just didn't show up for Her regularly scheduled visit. This set the tone for our relationship from thereon. She would never arrive on time; She started to show up unexpectedly; there was never a confirmed length of time for her stays. Initially, I was thrilled. I could do anything with anyone at anytime. I could go anywhere wear anything at anytime. Freedom! Then the fun kind of wore off. She has been a dependable major part of my life for most of my life no matter how unpleasant. What was I with out her?  

And then I grudgingly realized, we are both growing older. But She has been around a lot longer than me. This torturous relationship is one She maintains with many, many others, thriving in our youth, gleefully cackling at us in our middle age, exiting unannounced and unceremoniously during the mature leg of our journey. If She wasn't family, She would be the meanest lover ever. 

It is weirdly comforting to know that my worrying is for naught. While I continue to express pseudo-anger against Her and her wicked, wicked ways, I still leave the door unlocked for whenever She decides to drop by. For while I am growing too old for her, I am still young enough to finally appreciate Her visits.  

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Spanx. Not For Sissies.

After crossing the burning sands, your body does not exactly have that one hundred percent youthful elasticity it used to. Expected. Just not appreciated. Keeping that ass off of the ground the boobs in the air the waist cinched just so is a pain in that ass.

Back in the day, my Mom would deal with this issue by wearing a 'girdle'. Positively hideous in appearance, it was a flesh colored (actually no one had flesh that color) piece of body armor with hooks, snaps and elastic hanging parts. The ugliest dominatrix outfit I ever saw.  I understood why she was always in a very bad mood before going out.

Hello Spanx.

The kicky display with the sassy signage. Spanx promised to tighten my full figure curves without cutting off my circulation. A girdle for the new age. So pretty in design that a booty call would not know the difference. Smooth to the touch it felt like sex and whispered to me like a pimp, "I'll be so good to you baby".  Sure, the price equates to that of a budget for a small nation but that made me hustle even harder. I needed to make my pimp happy. 

What they forgot to mention, on the fancy tag, on the fancy signage, on the Oprah Winfrey show, is that they are a bitch to get on. I don't know about off for I am still wearing the first pair I ever bought. Here's what I learned:

One, you need at least an hour before 'Go' time for the Spanx ONLY. Forget the hair, makeup and nails; you will need the entire 60 minutes to squeeze your pliable flesh into this unforgiving scientifically enhanced armor. Yay modern age. 

Second, while body oil and lotion is good, there is nothing like the application of good ole Vaseline all over the body to help slip the sucker on. It makes the difference between putting the Spanx on upright as opposed to laying down on the floor breathing hard and curse-crying while you 'pull' pause 'pull' pause...like an oarsman in an old biblical movie. 

Third, there is a 'clit slit'. Yep and thank the Lord. A slit of an opening from tip of clit to start of ass to allow you to pee without having to remove or pull down the Spanx cause let's be honest, you ain't getting them off no time soon. If ever. You might want to wear a thong for though it might be considered daringly sexy to have your vay jay jay hanging out in reality it's just awkward.  

Now once on, the Spanx is second skin. I swear it - you won't even feel it. That memory of you laying on the floor crying? Pfffttt. It gives you the body of your waking and sleeping dreams. It makes you the envy of every man and woman for miles around. The dress those pants slip easily over and on. No jingling baby just well placed well paced 'thrust'. 

I no longer dread the whole 'whatamIgoingtowear' phase. I can wear it all. As long as there's grease. 

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Introducing...Betty.

Ladies and some Gentlemen,

I wrote a post, not too long ago, entitled "Grey Grey (ahem) Everywhere" in which I referred to a hair dying brand that I attempted to use in my 'downstairs apartment'.

Well look what I found. In many colors (gotta love the malibu) for many moods for many hours of out and out laughter.

Happy dying.

xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

The infamous 'betty' dye with lovely sketch

Feminism Reversed

All of this independence isn't what it's cracked up to be.

WAIT.... Let me begin by saying that I truly believe women rule the world. Whether it's in the boardroom or the bedroom. Whether it's loudly or stealthily. I believe in paying my own way, having my own business(es), being self sufficient and owning my own uterus. Roar.

But I gotta tell you... I'm exhausted.

I daydream about what it would be like to only have to concern myself with the running of my house (maid driver housekeeper cook nanny), my children (if I had any) and my husband's (if I had one) work and social schedules.  I wonder what it would be like to be a 'kept' woman. Have my rent paid, my daily/weekly/monthly expenses taken care of, travel exotically often, my one job making sure my ass/nails/hair were always well maintained. Available for my sugar daddy every so often like a long awaited treat (or a semi-retired hooker depending on how you look at it).  No roar needed.

Can you tell I'm tired?

Too many real housewives episodes. Too many basketball football baseball player wives shows.  These times don't allow anyone to stay home chillaxing. Running a home (sans maid cook housekeeper nanny driver) has turned INTO a business. My fourty(ish) age will not garner me the type of sugar daddy I envision and I am not the camera ready bottled barbie he envisions. With my luck, I would get the wealthiest but oldest raisin in the world hooked up to a respirator (promising) but fighting to live forever (boo).

Wish I could write this laying down.

These thoughts do come fast and furious during this decade. For if you are in this decade, you were next to me at the front tail-end of the feminist movement/fight/war. The fight for equality for recognition for equal pay for ownership of our body against the tyranny of men since college. Determined to make our mark on our terms. Changing the perception of a what a woman is suppose to do as opposed to what a woman can do.

I'm gonna lay down.

At the end of the day, I am not fooling myself. I know those roads never taken, if I had to do it all over again, would remain untraveled. Daydreaming about the grass possibly being greener is what we all do whether it is professional or personal. You will simply do it a little more often during this decade. Especially when you're tired.

And that movement, that fight STILL exists today (here's looking at you Republican party which ain't no party).  So like any weary determined warrior, I pick myself up, put on my warpaint, gather my weapons, toss back my ale (wine vodka) and run screaming into the fray. ROAR.

 (But sometimes it would be nice to hire someone to do it for me).

xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Doctor, Dentist, Nutritionist, Internist. Why are they in my life?

The amount of appointments I schedule for doctors is starting to surpass the number of appointments I schedule for my business. Word.

I have always had pretty good health even outside of the drinking, the drugging and the smoking. For God's sake, I was  achingly young and therefore experiencing all of the great stuff that happens with youth: limber limbs, clear glowy skin, full set of shiny non-cavity teeth, almost 20/20 vision, batman like hearing. The only doctor I saw, the only doctor on my speed dial was my GYN. And you know why.

Back then, I could simply pick up the phone, call the nice receptionist, exchange pleasantries (how is your little boy?  yeah, loooonnnggg time no see!), get an appointment. In fact, she would work with my schedule to make sure I got an appointment that worked for me.

Here's how it happens now:

Take off one full work day. Have writing pad, three working pens, computer booted up, a complete list of doctors, telephone numbers and questions at the ready. Have coffee, cigarettes and large pin for stabbing yourself in the palm of your hand. Be prepared to call a few times, scroll through the endless options, finally hit 'O', speak to the overworked gum chewing tooth sucking attitudinal receptionist, be put on hold for years without music, then given an option of available appointments that wouldn't work for Jesus himself.

A sampling:

My dentist only works on Monday/Wednesday/Friday for he has a summer/winter home and really prefers to be there. 

My GYN is only available to probe me on Friday/Saturday for she has a residence in Westchester and really prefers to work there.

My primary care physician, who pretty much works seven days a week, has a reception room the size of a football field and a wait just as long. 

My internist I only met once. Could not pick him (her?) out from a police line up. 

My nutritionist is unattainable and therefore the love of my life. He is a rail thin 108 year old slightly stooped Southern gentleman with the biggest salt and pepper black power afro I have ever seen who always talks to me with a tone of exasperation. 

"I am feeling really light headed and tired." 

"Uh huh. Probably anemic.".

Panic.  "Oh my God, What should I do? What should I take?"

*Exasperated long sigh*

"Eat a burger. Twice a month. See Viola on your way out."

You will need these appointments. All of the mechanisms that are used to keep you upright, seeing, hearing, eating, tasting, smelling, just being fucking human, seem to have an expiration date (surprise). And this decade starts the warranty count down. 

So when your Mother asks if you are dating someone special, say "Yes! And they are all doctors."

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Dating. Again. (sigh)

I never thought I would ever have to deal with this topic during this decade. It helps that I am drunk.

You see, I have -well, had- a boyfriend. While we didn't live together, it was a two year daily story of togetherness. His luggage, my luggage, combing the two sets and working in any additional small bags - it was good. For me.

For him, apparently, my luggage was the kind he really really liked; just didn't love.

At first, I laughed. Shocked. Then I stared at him. Had a clear vision of me grabbing his beautiful head and pounding his beautiful dimpled face repeatedly into the car window shield (yes, this happened in a car, after a date, on a Saturday night) until the blood flowed freely and I could leave him for dead. Not because I was heartbroken (that would come very soon later); but because he was making me single. Again. Which means I had to start dating. AGAIN.

I could absolutely positively fucking kill him for that.

Dating in my twenties was beyond fantastic. Men over here, men over there, men everywhere. I had my pick of various litters. Dick over here, dick over there, dick everywhere. I didn't want to marry, didn't even want a commitment. I was a City girl living big in her world career on track watch my smoke. Yeah babee.

Dating in my thirties got a little - and I do mean little- more serious. Had to start setting the foundation for the big 'I DO', for children, for the house (not a two car garage but a condo with a doorman or brownstone with stoop), for the car, for the credit cards, for the ring, for the prestige ('Oh sorry, can't come tonight, the HUBBY and I have plans...').

That didn't turn out too well. Obviously. I have - had- a terrible short fuse and threw them out as fast as they came in. Thought I had all the time in the world. Ha. HA.

Enter this decade and I threw my hands up in the air. Whatever happens, happens was my mantra. And boy did it keep happening. Terrible blind dates (did my friends REALLY know me??); terrible dates I made on my own (did I REALLY know me??); terrible dates I had the common sense to leave ('excuse me, you suck and I am leaving.').

Now...who do I date? As far as I can see, here are my options:
Men younger than me who consider me a 'sexy cougar' while addressing me as ma'am.
Men my age who are divorced and angry. Really ANGRY.
Men my age who want to date women the age of my god daughter (18).
Men in their fifties who find me 'sassy'.
Men over sixty who want to date women my age (the age of THEIR daughters).

I am fucked.

My attraction is to men who are men. Not boys. Not guys. Men who live life like they have no birth certificate. Live, laugh, love, hard, loud with a sense of responsibility, of gravitas when called for, of common sense daily. Men who walk not in front of me or behind me but beside me. And if they are in front, they at least have the decency to hold the door open.

Yes, I expect a great deal. For I am a great deal. 

I realize that while my heart is healing, I am in no position to even consider dating right now. Can't see the trees for the forest. But, I always prefer to tackle unpleasant situations in advance, head on. It physically makes me sick to my stomach knowing that I will be 'out there' again -older, wiser and with a lot less enthusiasm. A LOT less.

But once I stop crying unexpectedly in cabs, on the toilet, when people greet me "hello"... But once I stop smoking cases of menthol cigarettes combined with morning afternoon evening vodka.... But once I start actually leaving my house to see sunlight...I will start taking stock of my (sigh) options. And attempting not to hurl in the process.

There is a silver lining to all of this: As with most things I don't want to do, when I finally do it...it usually turns out to be great.

*Fingers crossed*


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Appreciation

I am at the age where I actually stop and take stock of my life.

And believe it or not, there are quite a few things I appreciate about it:

• My nephew and godchildren think I am cool. 
• My boyfriend is much younger than me. 
• I can bounce out of bed in the mornings if I am not hungover.  Well bounce is slightly exaggerated. 
• I can roll out of bed in the morning when I am hungover. Hitting the floor still smarts though.
• Instead of throwing plates, I err on the side of laughter. And therefore, keep my dishes.
• I can still fit in my skinny jeans from three years ago. Still can't breathe in them either.
• My tits are still riding kind of high. Even without the six inch foam pad. 
• I love freely. Not free love; just loving without requiring a deposit. 
• I can't do dairy, so I do vodka. Perfect replacement. 
• I have regulated my swearing to begin at 12 p.m. instead of 12 a.m.   
• My skin still looks pretty good and tight. Thanks Mom and Dad. 
• My hair is not thinning nor falling out. Yet. 
• I really like yoga. Seriously. 
• I don't get carded but I do get 'checked out'.
• Still smart as a whip. When I can remember shit.
• Can't do white wine but red is just fine. 
• My sweet tooth seems to have fallen out. Yay. 
• Instead of a fast boil anger (going from zero to one hundred sixty in mere seconds), I do a slow simmer. And warn you in advance. 
• I still enjoy sex. A lot. 
• The gym and I continue to not have a relationship. And I am fine with that. The gym has no choice. 
• I love the family and friends who are with me at this point in my journey. I have great taste in people. 

Everyone can appreciate anything at anytime at any age.

But for some unexplained reason, at this age it's just sweeter. 

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)

What The F**k is AARP? And Why Am I Getting It?

Since January of this year, I have been receiving publications that I have not ordered nor paid a subscription fee. For free. They are as follows:

AARP                      (I don't know what the hell this is)
More Magazine    (for ladies over 40ish)
AAA Magazine     (yes, triple A produces a magazine)
Reader's Digest     (yes, still in publication)
Health Magazine (new upstart. like a young annoying cheerleader)

These publications are supposedly geared to people a hair shy of fifty and over. So far, I haven't crossed that line and am not rushing towards it. I still consider myself a Vogue Cosmopolitan Glamour Essence sort of girl. I mean woman.

I don't want to read about the best way to maintain vaginal moisture; the best time of the day to eat trans fats; how to fight that difficult gray (ah...scratch that);  the best food to lube your joints; the best makeup to hide those imperfections that come with age. Fuck you.

I am sure these were written with the best of intentions. A bunch of young folk sitting around an advertising conference table trying to gently help those who are slowly realizing that their 20's and 30's are really over easing them into the later stage of their lives. Like their parents. And I wish I was at that stage to accept this graciously given gift. But I am not.

Look, I still act inappropriately in all ways for my age. Not that that is right or wrong - just something that I continue to do. It's not that I don't want to 'age up'; it's just not my time to do so. For goddess sake, I internet. I twit. I Face the book. These are activities that 'older' folks do not understand or do. Harumph.

Yes, dear reader, I agree. My current rant is a lot of sound and fury signifying nothing - except the fact that I won't face the reality looming before me. Dragging my heels kicking and screaming. Desperately clawing at anything on the gravitational pull to fifty, reaching out for anything to retain my dear remaining youthful life.

I will say, these magazines are way lighter in pages and content. Is the assumption that I have learned everything already? They make great placemats but not door stoppers (not heavy enough). There are no 'special' issues (i.e. the September issue of Vogue) for life just moves on at a consistent piddling pace at this point. No surprises any longer? Nothing to look forward to? The advertisements have changed from hot clothes, hot vacations, hot clubs to drugs, drugs and more drugs. Legal drugs so it is not as fun.

They are damn depressing.

So to amuse myself (since they will not stop sending them no matter how often I insult customer service), I have decided to send back my response card with pithy, fun comments: "Fuck you"!. "Screw you!". "Go to hell!". Etc. etc, etc. They might find it amusing at first ('oh, that little old lady still has some fire!') but twelve months of being told to screw yourself in all sorts of inappropriate ways should guarantee a reduction in placemats for sure.

I'll keep you posted.

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)

The Sounds of Silence

It seemed as if I couldn't stand to be by myself. Big lights big city noises party parade celebration house party dinner with twenty or more rock concerts outdoor music movie films in surround sound cable T.V. stereo what's on the radio.


I couldn't wouldn't think for hearing. Silence was truly golden. And unwanted. Had to be in the thick the midst of all things. Adapting the beats to the pace of my life, stronger, faster, louder.


Days pass. Months pass. Years pass. Decades pass. Time folds noise into sound into dimness into comfortable stillness. It's not just the physical it's the internal as well - the soul the mind the heart the head. Not fresh faced anymore full of boiling churning emotions feelings everything either one hundred percent or nothing, happen now or never with foot stomping intense impatience. 


Now the ability to actually hear myself think is a nice miracle in real time. To arrive at conclusions without feeling like I was in a drunken stupor while doing so. Waking up comforted in the decisions that were made the evening the day the week before. The absence of a question mark and the insertion of a period makes all the difference. 


Not attending nor being counted nor part of the fray. Silencing out without benefit of headphones earbuds Kindle Nook or actual book. Being alone without being lonely every and any where. Getting in touch my with myself without touching myself. 


I found I'm not too shabby company, either. Full of musings imaginings philosophies comedic rhetoric sprinkled with liberal passions and sometimes misguided semi-concretely held beliefs. I am finally my own best company. My own best counsel. My own best friend. 

xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Oh Say, Can YOU See?

I can't see shit.  


My vision, while never 20/20, was always pretty good. I only needed cute glasses for watching movies or television - far sighted not near. (Is that right? whatever). I could read the fine print on a menu at three hundred paces away. And just like a Lifetime teevee movie of the week...*blink*. I am holding the menu directly in front of my face, over a candle, underneath a thirty bulb one hundred watt chandelier and can't see shit.  Squinting to make out the regular print forget the fine. 'Yes, I'll have the item highlighted in red, medium well. Oh, that's the restaurants name?".


I can't hear shit. 


In the 'before' days, you could whisper my name from miles away in a crowded school yard on a crowded subway in a crowded nightclub while standing on a loudspeaker the size of a small car and I would respond ('whaaaat'). Now you could be standing on top of me, shouting my name while using sign language and I would blankly stare at you,'whhhaaaaadidyousay'. To accommodate this unfortunate circumstance, I have developed the sexy (ha) side tilt. I laughingly lean in, tilt my head ever so slightly to the left/right and whisper back 'hmmmm?' at least twice before I can understand the words that are coming out of your mouth. And if I still don't understand, I simply laugh and change the topic. 


I can't speak for shit. 


In my minds eye I can see the words I want to say I can formulate them in my brain while exchanging witty adult banter. But what happens in my head and what comes out of my mouth are vastly, laughingly different: '"Oh yes, his performance had me totally stuck in my place" (mesmerized). "The color palette is so congruous with the wood stain." (consistent). Funny. While conversing with children under the age of five I don't seem to have this problem. 


Yep, this is the definite area where it all goes to hell in a round woven object (handbasket). And there is absolutely nothing you can do. Nope. Frustrating. Yep. But it is simply the body beautiful aging the hell out of you. Unless you can 'jump' bodies (did anyone determine that yet?), you are stuck in your own. 


And for once, I am not fighting it. I actually find it works in my favor: 
A ten percent tip for an asshole waiter instead of the fifteen. "Oh, so sorry...didn't see that notation on the bottom of my check". The contractor who informs me that he will show up at the end of the week to collect his final payment even though he took two additional weeks to complete my already late project."Ohhh...did you mean THIS Friday? So sorrreee! I heard you incorrectly." Reviewing an artist friend newest contemporary piece using their hair and plastic string. "Oooohhh...I totally get why this is a sham that it sells at this price....oops, I meant 'shame'....".


And sometimes it happens all at once. While peering at my neighbors hideously ugly baby that everyone was cooing over, I lost all of my senses and simply smiled lovingly when asked 'isn't she precious'. I apologized to my neighbors later saying that I simply lost my senses while staring at the wonderous new life. 


See? Jumping out of your body does work. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Am I Becoming (gulp) Conservative?

I used to be 'that' girl with 'those friends'. 


You know, the young lady you would see in the super high heels with the super v neck top exposing almost everything with the super illegal short skirt that you can't bend down in or sit down in or breathe in. Trampi-I mean, traipsing around all sex before the city doing everything short of illegal and if it was, So. What. 


My friends were all artists and automatically cool. We partied in old churches converted into night clubs. Partied in lofts that were taken over by other artists with questionable electrical and sometimey water. Sexuality? Free to be you and me and possibly he. Fueled by liquor cigarettes and drugs we would laugh at our parents, the old folks, 'cause they missed the train on being young and fun forever and ever aaaaamen. 


Now I can't figure out if I am old or just jealous. 


I still consider myself kinda...hip. *cringe* I dress current enough to accommodate certain things (yeah, the old 'do I look fat in this?'). I still have the cool artist musician writer design photog friends except we all have super high rent or mortgages to consider. Gave up the drugs, still do part time cigs and the liquor continues to flow into my body - albeit on a very slow pre-determined schedule, And my party places? Well that old church is now a mall. And the party has moved to my couch. 


Even my politics seem to have taken a small turn right of 'let everyone be what they wanna be': So...you have many kids with many non-participating fathers. Suing because you spilled the hot coffee you ordered on yourself. Don't like the direction the country is taking but don't vote.  Watching your pant size increase but won't get off of the couch or really change your diet. I am not heartless but it isn't bleeding too much for anyone anymore. 

When packing my purse I make sure to carry a pashima an umbrella mints tissues lotion extra pair of shoes ibuprofen lip balm SPF face lotion ...Maybe it's just me and this is what people (women) carry all the time. No one could ever count on me having any of this stuff. Took my chances with weather, with heels, with the possibility of a mess. Now I pack for the Apocalypse. 


Ordering in restaurants is depressing. I consider my red meat intake my sugar intake my diary my carbs and settle for the freshly washed green leaf salad instead of the bacon garlic crouton encrusted buttermilk dressing salad. Settle for the steamed not the fried exotic. Settle for pseudo milk instead of the fourteen liqueur infused cocktail. 


During my 'me time' days, I make sure to tell the manicurist to paint them Ballet Slipper throw up muted pinkish grey instead of the Aiee Ya Ya vivid lime green that catches my eye. What would my clients think? A responsible adult makes responsible choices. 


Right? 

As with everything, as long as you can identify the problem, you can solve it. The problem: I was becoming an old judgmental asshole before my time. I could foresee it happening while kissing the sidewalk at the age of nine hundred (mumbling toothless at the feet of the young whippersnappers) but not now . The solution: just stop it. And it's not easy. You toe the line between being seen as the adult who can't let go of the past to the adult who can't let go and enjoy the future. 


So everyday I have to make a concentrated effort to play with my food. To remember to live and let live. Paint them nails in teenage shades. Carry a smaller purse (impossible). To listen for those thoughts those words of pure naked cranky adultness before they come out of my mouth. Stop paying attention to right sided people. Go back to the ways of the glass is half full. 

And maybe, just maybe, I can truly be cool again. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

The Only Exercise I Wanna Do Is Hand to Mouth

I have avoided them all day.

They silently lay in the other room but I can feel their presence. Every since I brought them home, they have been waiting for their cellophane to be ripped off, their hardcovers forced open, to be gently lifted from their center and slid, on their backs, into the waiting gap.


They have familiar names: Rodney Yee A.M Yoga workout. Billy Banks Fitness Boot camp. GAIAM P.M. Cardio Walking. Richard Simmons Dancing to ...whatever.


In my youth, I was not an exercise aficionado, but I always had a gym membership. It was a waste of time for I was able to maintain my weight by bobbing and weaving through people walking the sidewalks during the day and furiously club dancing almost every night. If I was hungry, I had a cigarette (yes, they are good for something). If I couldn't fit into those tight jeans comfortably, I simply drank liquids for a week. Easy.


During my twenties that is.


It's pretty amusing that at the time of your life when you need to exercise, keep it oiled and lubed so that your joints will continue to get you from a to b without incident - I simply have no desire to 'just do it'. At all. But your doctor and your health dictates it differently.


Most of my women friends experiencing this decade are totally committed per their posts on my social media site: "Ran another buh-jillion miles today!"..... "Just signed up for the NYC marathon (holding up their number)".... "Here is the latest photo from my morning walk!". Really? Whatever. *raised middle finger*


Due to guilt and the slight wheezing from climbing the subway steps, I rejoined the gym. The first couple of weeks went extremely well. They always do. Visions of Rocky Balboa jugging up those infamous steps in that horrific sweatsuit - that's me in way better clothing. Of the moment reusable water bottle. Hip scientific sneakers - I mean athletic footwear. Five pound hand weights so I can enter the 'gun' show.


Then I get bored with the repetition of being indoors. Would be more inspired to be inspired by Mother Nature. Aaaahhh. As usual, the first couple of weeks go well. Fast walking boot camp classes free to be me yoga classes in the park. Seeing all of the other women in their exercise gear, fancy water bottles. We give slight nods to each other. High five sisters, we are doing it for ourselves.


Like the bloom on any rose, this glow also wears off. Alarm goes off, hit the snooze button remain in bed. Repeat daily. Heeeyyy....since I love my bed, exercise would be made easier by simply rolling out of it directly into my exercise gear. Enter the Internet. I can get thin by using my computer. And combined with the food diary from the weight loss conglomerate it will be so easy that it's stupid.


Stupid is as stupid does. I pull a calf muscle doing downward dog. Inflamed my knee (think swollen oversized knob) doing cardio kick boxing. While using my five pound weights, dropped one on the top of my left foot. Dropped the other one in the garbage. After a couple of  (finally) injury free weeks, I started using the computer to catch up on "Basketball Wives" before work. Surprise. 


The bitch of it is that I do feel better when I do work out. Lighter on my feet. Can stay focused during meditation without daydreaming about the 'what ifs'. Don't have to lay down to zip up my jeans. (score). And that pigeon crap on my shoulder? Bluebird love.


The problem is there is no everlasting joy in it. And you're allowing your endorphins to rule if you think otherwise.  Exercise is a necessary evil - period. Whether it's done in a gym, outside or on a yoga mat in your home, it still sucks. Basically, I only do it to look good in my clothes, to be able to eat food that is 'bad' for me and to drink fruity cocktails with wild abandon. 


 So until I am inspired to try something new (Zumba here I come), I will continue to practice the best exercise I know: Lift fork to lips. Lift glass to mouth. But... I will be using my butt muscles to clutch my backless bar stool so I can stay erect. 


That counts for something, right? 


XO,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Crossing the Burning Sands

I have a number of friends who are experiencing birthdays this month. Some within this decade, some just before it, some who are celebrating what we call a 'baby birthday'. Meaning you can still say the number out loud instead giving people the year of your birth and letting them do the math.

Birthdays always remind me of when I turned forty. Not any other birth year for they were just fodder compared to The Big One. Forty was the milestone, the immovable object, the rock which permanently closes the entrance to the cave. Unlike that story, there will be no resurrection of your youth beyond this point.

Remember the birthdays of yore? Cake, presents, balloons, the nervous happy anticipation, your friends and family wishing you 'Happy Birthday'! all day long, cards from Grandma with five dollars enclosed. As you got older,.. play hooky from work, surprise parties, dancing wildly all night with your girlfriends, intimate dinners with boyfriends/husbands/lovers, trips abroad to mark the occasion (the standard photo of naked feet with painted toes on the sand). Now? A non-fast food meal, a bottle of wine, maybe sex, lights off by 10. Exhausted.

I don't know how you spent the big one, but I spent mine in bed re-enacting a Bette Davis movie: peignoir, 4oo thread count sheets, cold martini glass, large martini shaker. Drinking and crying. Dripping non waterproof black mascara (for I got made up for the occasion). Drinking and crying. Flinging my arm across my face, sobbing loudly. Loud enough so that my neighbor proceeded to bag her broom handle on her floor (my ceiling). A drag queen didn't have nothing on me with all the drama I was bringing.

And then my head cleared. I got up off my ass and realized the world didn't stop rotating on its axis. The sun was still shining (horribly bright). I still had to get up, feed the cat and take my ass to work (that would be my home office down the hall). I made a vow then to never give up my real age readily or easily. I would make others work for it.

"Hey! You just had a birthday didn't you?"
Me: "Yes".
"If you don't mind my asking, is it the big one?"
Me: "What do you consider big?".
Dead stare.
Silence.
Dead Silence.
"Okaaayyy. Well, happy birthday anyway!". Nervous smile.

I had let everyone else's thoughts regarding that day turn me into a hot mess. That it was all over now...I was officially 'old'...that if I haven't done it by now...that it's vitamins, doctors and weather telling joints from here on out. It is only truly now (that I have sobered up) that I have stepped back and realize it is, it was the greatest day ever.

It means that I made it through my wild, wild youth and still live to tell the tales. Some of my dear friends did not. It means that I am 99% me. Instead of walking on clouds, I walk on solid ground with purpose to my step not uncertainty. It means that I may not have achieved all of my dreams personally and professionally, but I have new ones that excite me.  And there is still time to realize those.

So yes, the big 4-0 is a big deal. And you should treat it as such whether you do it out loud or do it quietly. Celebrate it for all of the right and positive reasons. You will never cross this way again. And that's not a bad thing.

Cheers baby.

xo,
Fabulously Forty(ish)

I Get So Emotional Baby....

I fancy myself a tough bitch. 


A born and bred New York City woman who can step over a drunk body or a dead body with the same indifference. A woman who can command a sidewalk elbowing folks out of my way like bowling pins while making my way from point A to point B.  A woman who would seriously like a mink / crocodile farm in order to have her coat, purse and shoes made at the same time. I am not emotional on the inside or the outside. 


Talk is cheap. 


During this special oh so very special decade I have taken to crying unexpectedly, instantly and at great shock to me and everyone around me. It's freaky weird and embarrassing. I never know when the water works will start. It could be something as normally horrifying as the loss of a love one or as outright stupid as not being able to find the right birthday card. For a kid. Who is 1.  


I have always prided myself on facing life realistically. To me, there was/ is no crying in real life; at least not in front of others. Crying was for the weak. That was something you did behind closed doors, preferably in a bathroom while berating yourself for it. You take a moment, shake it off, re-apply your face powder, return to the situation to the life at hand. Chop chop and all that. 


Ah, the good old days. 


Those stupid Hallmark commercials, any commercial involving family/sentiment/feelings receives a watery salute. The video where the momma dog adopts a slew of mewling kittens receives a ghostly tear track. Any video where a serviceman returns home and surprises his young children at school...you have to pry the kleenex decorative box out of my shaking hands. The moment when I return home and realize the cashier mistakenly forgot to pack my jar of mayonnaise for my tunafish pasta salad...well, I think hysterical weeping leading into hand wringing leading into 'why God, why?' might be a bit much. 


Yes, I realize that each incident preceding the tears touches me in some way. Reminds me of life in some way. The loss of youth. The loss of innocence. The loss of love. Subconsciously crying over spilled milk and all of that. But crying over actual spilled milk is kind of freaking me out. 


I actively work against it. When I realize that for whatever ridiculously insane reason I am starting to blink rapidly to prevent another damn burst, I pinch myself. To draw blood. Or step on my own foot. Or bite my tongue. Or think of something really nasty disgusting (having sex with my Ex) or really hysterically funny (having sex with my Ex). Either way it works like a charm. Sure. 


Actually, there are annoying positive aspects. The massive amounts of water have proven to be a plus for my skin. The tears have proven to work for me in certain public situations ("Oh my goodness lady, it's okay, it's okay...here, I'll just include this cookie with your coffee since we don't have any more organic napkins"). The salt is amazing at removing waterproof mascara. Really.


Cry me a river? *shrug* My damn pleasure. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

I Am Too Old To Worry About That S**t.

What is refreshing about this time is that your concerns have become practically non-existent. 


People, places and things that used to effect you emotionally, that would make or break your day are still there. They just no longer have that power. Outside of any pressing medical issues, you really could give a crap. 


'Eh' with a shoulder shrug should be printed on tee shirts for this decade. 

Let me give you a few examples:


- Getting ready to go out to dinner. Hair, makeup, nails done. Outfit on. Rocking shoes. Grab bag. Overall slow check in full length mirror one more time. Bend head down to scope errant hair from breast of shirt. Lips brush fully against front collar. Red lipstick. White shirt. Loud curse. Quick stare down in the mirror. Shrug shoulders. Exit. 


- Having folks over for dinner. Vacuum, dust, polish days beforehand. Day of the dinner sweet furry felines decide that their hair should be the party gift. Review party landscape right before guests arrive. Take a pointed look at thin, slivery hairs softly floating in the air. Landing on the furniture. Everywhere. Oh well. Break out big rolls of masking tape for guests.  


 - Standing on quick process line in supermarket. Behind woman with shopping cart of more than ten items. Who has no understanding of the scanner. Repeated blips. Moving like molasses. Time ages me. Finally I state loudly "For God's sake lady!". Everyone looks at me ugly, horrified. What an asshole I am. Did I mention she was about eighty? Lady says to me pointedly, "you'll be blessed to reach my age". Yeah. But it won't be at the inconvenience of every one else. 


Sex with the lights off? For god's sake. Glad to be having sex period. Flared pimple in the middle of my nose on the big date/presentation/ first day of vacation? *shrug*. Pop it. Wear red pulsating dot all day. Grey silver roots appearing faster, openly, brighter? Eh. Wear it like I don't see it. And you don't either. Pizza garlic breath and no gum? *eh combo shrug*. Breathe normally. Talk directly to people face to face. And not behind my hand. 


It's not that you won't have a flicker of 'Oh God, should I.....?". It's just that you won't back step. One foot in front of the other. Keeping it moving. You have become strongly aware that, shit, this decade IS the halfway point. Life is shorter than you thought. All of this 'stuff', this toxic cloudy mess of uncertainty mixed with superficiality...do my colors match, what do my friends, my boss think of me, does my mustache show (too lazy to wax today), choosing your actions so very carefully before a reaction, speaking from scripted thought instead of from your real mind...... *you know the routine*. 


This is the time of your swagger. Let your 'I could give a shit' flag fly (pretty visual that one). Peel off the decorative plastic wrapping and show the gooey goodness inside. Whether it's to everyones liking or not.


xoxo,


Fabulously Fourty(ish) 

Sex. Sex. And Mo' Sex.

They say men think about sex about a million times a day. So what. You will think about sex about a million times a minute.

And not love making, not soft core porn, not 'caress my face before deflowering me' women made for women movies of the week. Just hard core straight up doggy style reverse cowgirl rough and ready ride 'em make me yell your name hard and loud sex. You will become that prepubescent pimpled boy. Without the bathroom time or the Playboy magazine.

The sense of urgency is palpable. Almost controls you instead of you controlling it. Foreplay? A thing of the past. Not required to ride this ride. By the time you say "Hello", I am standing there naked. Liberating? Hell yeah. Embarrassing? Only when it happens in public.

As a major sex supporter, my desires went from comfortable to ridiculous pretty instantly. I could not look any man in his face without itching to survey his crotch first. Is that zipper straining? How big were his lips? The size of his hands, his feet - and yes nine times out of ten it's true. Shoulder width? (Good for climbing). Oh God. What was happening to me?

At first, red faced, stuttering shame. I was mature on the outside but a raging hormonal booty call on the inside. Later, no shame. When I was caught, I coolly met their eyes. Dead on. Yeah, big boy. Bring it.

Every little thing will set you off. Every little thing sets me off. A breeze. A purring car engine at a stoplight. The smell of a musky cologne. A shoe sale. Handing the male bus driver my metro card. Whatever. Whenever. I exist in a perpetual state of 'blush' all the time.

Mother Nature, in all of her infinite wisdom, made women over fourty possess the libido of a zippy college boy. Made men over fourty have the libido of a eighty five year old man. With a broken hip. And a cane. Sucks. Especially since we have 'arrived'. Are 'seasoned'. Know exactly where, how to position our lips. Our hips. When to 'inhale' and not 'inhale'. Wink.

Forget sex toys. Pocket rabbit vibrating weird color penis clitoris massager...nothing will help. Or slow you down. All of that cold plastic. All of those required batteries. A little nerve wracking to say the least. Ain't nothing like the real thing baby. In reality no one has a tiny sex rabbit. No one has a penis that vibrates. That feels, smells and tastes like plastic. Not that I've come across.

I do get concerned - sometimes. How much can my sugar box take? Have I really lost my freaking mind? Am I a sex addict?  My boyfriend, who is  eight years younger than me, wonders out loud what the hell he has gotten himself into. Ever seen a grown man really cry? Most of the time he stares at me in stunned disbelief. Damn woman, AGAIN? Ah...yes. Please.

So what. This is the best highlight of this decade ladies. We are so sexually healthy it is every mans wet dream. Or it could be. Hold your head up. Put your embarrassment on ice. Experience this gift to its fullest whether that is in or out of bed.

Who are we kidding. Preferably in.


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Being All Evel Knievel With My Bucket List.

I watched a move a couple of years ago with Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson called "The Bucket List". About old men, dying old men, who decide to hurriedly do everything they have ever wished before they croak. Cute. Didn't really pertain to me for I was forever young with all the time in the world on my side. 


I totally get it now. 


Don't get me wrong, I am not...1. an old man and 2. not getting ready to croak (as far as I know). There is just this sense of daredevilry, absolute 'I don't give a f**k' freedom that is happening right now that cannot be denied. On scales big and small.  


And I don't mean like in the old days. Having sex without a condom and employing the pull out method. Freely mixing all sorts of liquors while cocktailing for hours sometimes days on end. Fully sitting on a public toilet seat. With no paper down. In a dive bar or questionable eating establishment. Pshaw.   


It goes from something as simple and uncomplicated as additional cheese on my pizza (the hell with the Gout!) to something that is guaranteed to put me in an early grave if it goes, well, wrong (Plummeting to the earth outside of a plane (aka skydiving)? Sure.). Swimming immediately after eating? Getting needled and inked in 'sensitive' areas? Parasailing off a raft in the middle of the ocean without true professional assistance? Been there. Done that. 


Now, I watch videos of bungee jumping and think YES. I see stories of people hang gliding off the rockiest cliff on the planet with only a few hours of instruction and think HELL YEAH. I see the young men diving off of naturally formed rocky ledges and think *chest pound* I AM A YOUNG MAN. Can't catch my breathe due to the excitement. And not totally due to the lithe bodies hitting the warm water. 


Not that I was ever a mousy woman scared of my own shadow. Challenges have always turned me on.  I have always forced myself to do the impossible, to attempt the unachievable, to risk all that there is to risk personally and professionally. But something about this decade just makes me feel...crazily free. Completely, unabashedly untethered. The world is really my oyster, throw caution to the wind, all that jazz. 


And no, I don't need to 'speak to somebody'. 

This loss of fear (even if you've never had any), this influx of what the hell excitement, is exhilarating. Running with the bulls in Pamplona. Tied of simply reading about it. Swimming with sharks. Not the businessmen but the real McCoys. Eating spicy food after - yes, after- midnight. Singing out loud in public comfortable that you are piercing ear drums and busting windows (and not in a good way). Do it. Do it. DO IT. *Pounding the top of my desk while flinging my head from side to side* 

It's not that you're in a rush; you're in a 'now'. You realize that all of the previous years have gone by pretty damn quickly and now is the time to get 'er done. That well maintained plot underneath the beautiful cherry tree or that oven fit for one is not a dream but a reality. And you can't live forever. Not just yet. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

My Body. Myself. Screw You.

When you enter this decade, the best relationship you will have is the one with your body. You have made peace with your form and your function. You have made peace with the decisions you have made in regards to life and liberties. You are grateful that you have had the opportunity to make those choices and move on. 


Unfortunately, it is beginning to appear that the next generation(s) of women will not have those rights. 


As of late, there have been a number of laws and bylaws passed in an attempt to control women and their bodies. Which if you know women, any woman, you know that this is the dumbest idea on the planet. Suicidal to even suggest or attempt. Unfortunately, quite a few politicians - read 'testosterone driven' - in their infinite un-wisdom haven't got that memo. 


Let me give it to you now. 


Dear Male Politicos:   


Shut the fuck up. 


Unless you have all of the accoutrements needed to be classified a Female (naturally), shut it. If you do not go to a doctor who politely asks you to put your legs into cold metal stirrups as they insert a cold metal prod into your vagina...shut it. If you are not physically able to be initially responsible for the feeding and caring of the human race within your body...shut it. You do not have a right to swing your penis into matters that do not concern you. 


If you plan on having sex with any woman, ever again, in your lifetime, then you better make sure there are options available outside of abstinence (haven't we tried this already?) and the condom you have been carrying in your wallet since your early "oh, is he still in the bathroom?" days. I will decide if I want to repopulate the species or not. And if I cannot, will not, for any reason, I should be guaranteed the right to make another decision, legally and safely. 


When exactly did we become the enemy? When we took off apron and stop frying the bacon? When we started busting through the glass ceiling you put over us? When we started purchasing cars, homes, islands without your assistance? When we started making the conscious choice to become single parents on our terms? Grow up. 


You can control your business. You can control the remote. But you cannot control us. Do yourself a favor and stop this madness right now. It is not acceptable nor is it very smart. It will affect all of us - but primarily you - from the voting booth to the boardroom to the nursery to the bedroom. As with any type of behaviour, only you possess the mindset to change it. 


And do remember: It is not nice to screw with Woman Nature. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish) 




TAKE NOTE: Here are the recent laws which have been passed:


Virginia: Ultrasound Bill Forces women seeking an abortion to get an abdominal ultrasound exam.
Oklahoma: "Heartbeat" Abortion bill.
Arizona: Bill passed allowing Doctors to not inform women of prenatal issues to prevent abortion.
Texas: Women's clinics have their finances cut.