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)