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