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)