Vagina Dialogues

Over the course of one’s lifetime, we end up going to many kinds of doctors. I know I have seen pretty much every specialist out there. We women seem to have it much worse than the men. I know…I know, guys...you get your prostate checked and yada yada yada...and I’m sure getting your balls squeezed for 3 nano-seconds while coughing is ten times worse than giving birth. We feel very sorry for you. But let me tell you...going to the gynecologist is not only humiliating [not quite as humiliating as the proctologist, mind you, but humiliating nonetheless], but it is also the gateway to so many other kinds of exams and more. 

Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to have my six month checkup with my gyno. I happen to love my gyno...she's thorough, knowledgeable, young and chatty. Quite chatty. I tend to wonder if she's paying attention to what she's doing while her hands are halfway up my hoohoo and she's chatting away inside my vagina.

But before I even get to see her, I have to get on the exam table while her nurse takes my vitals. I always wondered why blood pressure and temperature are the two standard measurements they take in every office no matter what kind of doctor you're visiting. If I'm visiting the orthopedist, what's he going to do if I have a fever? Put me in a neck brace? I think I'll have to check that one out on Google. Or I guess I could just ask my daughter since she's a medical assistant and in nursing school. It's the simple, logical things that I tend not to think of right away. I frighten myself sometimes.

"Take off all your clothes and put the top on, open to the front please, and drape the other across your lap. You can leave your socks on if you'd like." It's a look we all want to have at some point. Naked, wearing athletic socks.

I don't know about you, but I unknowingly get nervous in the doctor's office and the longer I sit there, the more I start sweating, and when my bare bottom is sitting on that examining table paper, my tushy starts to stick to it.  I try to lean to one side and then the other, to lift up off the paper, but little pieces break off on each cheek and by the time the doctor comes in, I have an entire paper roll stuck to my butt. 

Sometimes I wait so long for the doctor to come in, I start to check things out: test my reflexes with the little knee knocker thingie; take a few gloves and shove them in my purse, [for reasons unbeknownst even to me]; search the drawers for anything of interest; take my own blood pressure, [just because I feel grown up using the stethoscope]; and read all the back, knee, neck, organ and shoulder diagrams. Sometimes I go to the doctor just to catch up on my medical reading; although many of the diagrams are way out of my league and totally baffle me.

Finally the doctor comes in and after she's done picking the paper out of my nether region, she comes at me with the Jaws of Life. "You're going to feel a little pinch." A LITTLE pinch? You may as well attach a lobster claw down there. That clench would be less of a pinch then the instrument she's using. How wide do you need it? I'm not delivering twins here. When she spoke I could hear an echo. 

"Now you'll feel a little scraping." You peeling paint in there? What the hell are you doing? I'd like to keep just a small part of my uterus, or cervix or whatever the hell you're excavating, if you don't mind. Is there a construction site in there?

It's not like I haven't had this done 50 times before, but each time seems just a tad worse than the last. I guess as you get older, and as you see less and less activity...anything shoved up there is a little shocking to the system. 

We commenced with the small talk. She began..."So, how have you been? Anything new going on?" Since her head is staring right into my vaginal cavity I assume she's asking the question regarding my vaginal activity. Since those lips don't really speak for themselves I thought I would answer for them. "Can't say there's been too much action going on." (But thank you so much for reminding me.) "Yes, I can see that...that's not exactly what I was asking." You can see that? What the hell else can you see in there? China? Are my car keys in there...they've been missing? "I was asking about your health...how have you been feeling...you ok? Anything bothering you?"

Oh...you mean aside from the fact that I've been celibate for the last two years, can't remember what a penis looks like and once tried to pick up a cross dresser? (Not really....I made that last one up.) I'm good...if you want to call newly formed jowls, saggy skin, creaky bones, shoulder pain, neck pain, back pain, blurred vision and memory loss, good.  Then I'm great! Couldn't be any better. 

"It's that time of year for your mammogram and bone density tests." Oh, yippee. I always look so forward to being reminded of all the testing that only the aging have to do. Should we throw in another colonoscopy while we're at it?  That's always one of the small pleasures for the over 50 bunch. “Would you like to have them at the same time?” No, thanks, I think one test at a time is plenty. I don’t want to glow from the radiation when I walk out.

“I see you have your gym clothes with you…are you going to work out after?” If I can get my legs closed after you get that crowbar out of me, yes, it’s a good possibility. Of course, I’m now 8 inches wider down there, so let’s hope nothing falls out. I’ll try not to push or exert too much.

“Well…everything looks good. I’ll call you when we get the results back and please remember to set up your tests. You don’t want to put those off.” I don't? Yes I do. "You can get dressed now and I'll see you in 6 months. Good seeing you." 

I got dressed, walked out to the reception area, paid my co-pay, got a few samples from the doctor and left. On my way out to the parking lot, I passed by a few people, nodded hello, just happy I was done with that visit, and took off in my car to the gym. When I got there, I had to pee so badly, I barely made it to the bathroom...and the gym was packed. I was hoping the bathrooms weren't all taken. I walked into the locker room and as I passed by the mirror...there it was...examining table paper hanging out of my gym shorts. And no one at the doctor's office thought it was worth mentioning? I now belong to a new gym.





 

And the Search Begins

I think I’m over being single. Not that I would want to be married again. No thank you. Not that I mind having the choice to do whatever I want whenever I want.  The only person who has to agree with me is me. And not that I mind never worrying about upsetting someone and getting into an argument. I’m not confrontational so it’s nice not to have to confront; especially when it’s over the most insignificant, ridiculous topics and half the time you are arguing just because you somehow ended up there and can’t find your way out. I don’t mind not being accountable to anyone as to where I am going or what I am doing. Being single can be quite liberating.

With that said…what I do mind…is being frickin’ bored.  Living in the middle of suburbia where the median age is 38 and 95% of the males even close to my age are married, and the other 5% are not married for very obvious reasons, makes for a difficult social life. The few single friends I have live in other states; some on the other coast, but those that live in California, may as well live in other states since they are too far to commute to anyway.

I’m not the type to go exploring by myself, for various reasons. One…I get lost in my own house. Two…it’s more fun with someone else. Three…I get lost. And four…I get lost. I tend to have slight panic attacks when I get lost. Yes…even with my talking GPS. I will go to the movies by myself, as long as I know how to get to the theater. Luckily there are a few close by so at least I can be current on my films. I’m not one to join clubs and organizations by myself. I’m basically pretty shy. I know…hard to believe…but I am. So when I have to go to a function where I don’t know anyone, those panic attacks tend to rear up again.  So where does one go when one is shy and living in some god forsaken-out of the city lights-Stepford wives community?

MATCH.COM baby! Here I come. [Again.] I was on Match about 3 or 4 years ago and unfortunately, so were many of the men I am seeing on there now. There is a small, new crop, but the ripe ones are few and far between. Needless to say, I happened upon many who made me stop and say… “Are you f**king kidding me?” Who would write this shit? And some of the pictures…’YOU think that this is your BEST picture you could post?’ If that’s their best, I can only imagine what they look like in person. And why would someone post as his profile picture, one of himself with his head in a fake shark’s mouth with the stupidest looking expression he could make? That’s the first impression he wants to make?

I would love to put their pictures on here so you could see exactly what I’m talking about…but you never know who knows who and I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. At least not to their face. I would rather just talk about them anonymously and write about them hoping it’s no one who reads this. And if it is…maybe this will be a helpful guide to a good match.com profile.

I love when they post one not-so-great pic of themselves and 8 different shots of their pet. Wow…that’s one good looking dog…I think I’ll send him a ‘Wink’. I sure hope he brings his owner with him on our date.

Then there are those who post landscapes. Why? I don’t need to see where you’ve been on vacation and where I probably won’t go if we start dating since you’ve already been there. How is that going to impress me?  Now…10 pictures of your cars and motorcycles? THAT impresses me. I need to know just what options I will have for transportation once we start dating. And if there’s a bike amongst them that I don’t like…well…that’s a deal breaker. I mean…a Honda, not a Harley? Forget you. And there better be tattoos to go along with that bike.

One of my favorites is always the one who poses with his shirt off in the majority of his pictures. A little impressed with yourself, are ya? Well...that is the one thing that does NOT impress me. I will move right along because most likely they look in the mirror way too much for my liking. I don’t care how great a body you have…keep it dressed for the Match site, wouldya? There is a guy I know at my gym who has gained quite a bit of weight but his profile pic is from when he was buff. I would hate to be the date who finds out exactly what he now looks like. Keep the pics current. I wouldn’t want some guy to think he was meeting me the way I looked ten years ago. I may not have gained any weight, but I sure had gravity make its mark. I think the look of disappointment would be worse than him passing me by on the website. I don’t get why guys do that. We are going to notice that there’s a 60 pound surplus once we see you in person guys!  

There was a man who was posing in a Speedo. A 60 something guy, and he wasn’t European. Granted, for his age…he looked good. But who would go out with someone who wears a Speedo if he isn’t swimming for an Olympic Gold Medal.  

Another turn off for me is when I see guys my age who are ‘seeking’ women 25-40. Twenty-five? Are you f**king kidding me? What could you possibly have in common with a 25 year old besides the fact that she may be friends with your daughter? What will you talk about…what she has planned now that she graduated college? And do you think she will be into your sagging you know what, or do you think it may be your inflated bank account? I don’t know…what do you think? I’m sure it will be the hanging skin that turns her on.

One guy wrote in his profile ‘You must have great legs and wear short dresses. That is a requirement.’ WHAT? Do you think he may be a little shallow and a tad hypercritical if your body isn’t perfect? And if someone in her 50’s is wearing a mini-skirt…I don’t care how great her body is…she should have a ‘Glamour NO’ tattooed on her back. There are just some things certain people shouldn’t do. But hey…there is someone for everyone. It’s what makes us all individuals…good taste or not. And what woman would actually read that and say…”That guy is for me”?

I got an email from a not-so-great-looking guy yesterday. The subject line said “Would love to start a conversation with you.” I thought…good opening line. Then I saw his picture. That blew it for me because he was just not my type. The Larry Fine hairdo (of Moe, Larry, and Curly fame) and Andy Rooney eyebrows just didn’t cut it for me. But if that wasn’t enough on its own (not to sound shallow myself, but there does have to be some chemistry)…the body of the email said, “You MUST call me. I don’t do email” and he gave me his number. Really? I MUST call you? Oh, sure I will, Master. You just sit by that phone and wait for my call. I’ll be right on that.  

I don’t mind when they say that if you do or don’t believe in something, or want something they don’t have, move on to the next person. When you say it in a nice way…it’s letting someone know not to waste either person’s time. I happen to appreciate that. What I don’t appreciate is when it’s someone that I would love to meet, but there’s that one stipulation that prohibits it. Ya know…like being a good Catholic girl. Well…I can’t fake that. Or being 5’9” or taller. Can’t fake that either.  Or having no children. Nope…can't fake that. Or being sexual. Now THAT I can fake.

What Did You Call Me?

I have never been one who calls people by a nickname. I rarely even shorten someone’s name unless I am introduced to them using that name.  If your name is Michael, I will call you Michael. I won’t call you Mike, or Mikey, or any other form used, unless you go by that name full time. For instance, my first husband is Lawrence, but he goes by Larry, and that’s how I met him and it’s the only name I ever called him. The only time I used Lawrence was when I filed my divorce papers.

But that’s not what bugs me. What bugs me are all the terms of endearment that people use for their spouses, family and friends. It’s just not sincere. It wouldn’t bother me if they only used them for that one particular person…but they don’t. They will call others they hardly know by the same nickname.  So you’re going to call me ‘sweetheart’ but then call the waitress at Jerry’s Deli ‘sweetheart’, too? I don’t think so. And please don’t call me by a name you used to call your ex-wife or girlfriend. That would really make me feel so very special. Seriously?

It’s the same thing with people telling people ‘I love you’ way too easily now, to people they really don’t love. The kids say it to all their friends, and some they aren’t close to. It’s way overused and loses its meaning for the people you really do love. I remember my daughter asking me to tell one of her friends that I love her. I said, “But I don’t” and she said, “Say it anyway…everyone does.” I wouldn’t do it. Saying I love you is reserved for those who I really do love. That’s not a compromise I will ever make and I don’t understand why others do.

I remember when I met my first husband and he started calling me ‘honey’. It was so odd to me because no one in my family had ever used terms of endearment. My parents only used their respective given names when they spoke to each other and our given names when they spoke to us kids. Both my sisters’ names were one syllable, so you couldn’t even shorten theirs. Actually, in our family, syllables were added, instead of shortened. I think it was a Yiddish/Jewish thing my grandparents did. I was Jaimala, my sister Beth was Betāmela and my sister Pam was Pamela; although Pamela was actually her real name. But being young and naïve, or just plain stupid, and only knowing her as Pam, I didn’t realize her given name had an –ela at the end. She ‘changed’ it to her real full name about 15 years ago...from Pam to Pamela. I still call her Pam. After 40+ years it’s kinda hard to start calling someone by a whole new name. Well...new to me, and not gonna happen.

But back to the endearing terms…and my husband calling me ‘honey’. It took me quite a while to get used to that. And I just couldn’t find a word I wanted to call him. Well…at least not while I was in love. I would practice saying words in front of the mirror. “Hi honey.” “Hi sweetheart.” “Hi sweetie.” Nothing felt like it would just flow out of my mouth naturally. It just wasn’t for me. I felt so ridiculous saying words like that. I guess it’s all how you are raised? I’m not sure, but since I never heard it in my house growing up, it wasn’t ‘normal’ for it to pour out. I just wasn’t feeling it. I did get used to him calling me ‘honey’ and he never called anyone else ‘honey’ besides me, so it was ok.  But I don’t remember ever having a nickname for him. I believe it just remained ‘Larry’.  At least out loud.

My second husband had 80 gazillion names for me.  And every single one of those…he used for others, too. It bugged the shit out of me. You may not call me ‘honey’ if you’re going to call Mildred, the 70 year old dry cleaner lady, ‘honey’, too. You may not call me ‘dear’.  We are not in our 80’s yet. Do not call me ‘darling’. I’m not Doris Day and you’re definitely not James Garner and we are not living in 1963.  And one of my most despised names of all…’Babe’. Do not ever call me ‘babe’. You’re not a construction worker whistling at me as I walk by…”Yo, Babe.” I am not a pig from a movie, nor am I some 20 something starring in a big screen feature film or a baseball player from the roaring 20's. Everyone uses ‘babe’ and it means nothing when everyone is using it. And I find it kind of demeaning for some reason. I want to feel special when someone calls me by a name other then my given name. It should mean something. I don’t want to be mixed in with everyone else you’re calling by that name. You may as well just call me Shirley. (“And don’t call me Shirley”).   

I did start calling him ‘honey’ for some reason, and I kept saying it until it felt normal. Or as normal as it was going to feel for me, which still was more abnormal than normal; never natural. I do remember the term ‘shithead’ being used quite a bit. That felt natural. Would you consider that a term of endearment? Probably not, huh? Over the years there were a few other names, but nothing I would post here. But they did flow out just fine at the time.

I had a boyfriend for a while, who I called ‘Weenie’. Don’t ask me why, but that felt natural. He didn’t take to it too easily at first, but when I pointed out that it actually was MY term of endearment for him only, he grew accustomed to it. It had nothing to do with his little pecker…if that’s what you’re wondering. It had nothing to do with him being a pansy. It just felt right and it was indigenous to him only. How special would that make a person feel? Weenie...so cute. 

There are only two people I have nicknames for…my daughters. And it’s the same for both and I never call anyone else by those names…’Sweetie’ or ‘Sweetie-pie’. I don’t know why those feel right but they do. Maybe because most of the time they are sweeties and my love is so deep. Although there are times I’d like to call them by other names…not so endearing…but I refrain because I’m supposed to set a good example. Aren’t I and do I have to? My girls know there are a couple of names I will not answer to. I will not answer to Mama. We are not in Little House on the Prairie nor are we in Tara. Actually, I think Mama is the only one I don’t like. I still love being called ‘Mommy’ no matter how old they get. It will always make me feel warm and fuzzy and that’s exactly what terms of endearment should do.

People have quite a few names for me that are variations of my given name. So that’s ok and kind of sweet. I will answer to Hymie (phonetically spelled for those of you who don’t speak Spanish and who obviously don’t live in L.A. then), Jai, Jaimala, Jame…and most forms thereof. I will also answer to ‘Love of my life’, ‘Woman of my dreams’, ’20 Million Dollar Winner of Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes’.  Or…Jaime, Jaime bo bamey, banana fanna fo famie, fee fy mo mamie…Jaime. 

And that’s the name of the game……Babe.

Who You Callin' Trouble?

Over the years I have prided myself on being the poster child for the perfect daughter. Then I thought back to all the shenanigans I had pulled growing up and into my early adult years and realized I had been anything but. My parents didn't really know a lot of the stuff I did, so to this day, I still WAS the perfect child in their eyes. (Not as an adult...just as a kid). I never did anything illegal or dangerous...just enough to get me into trouble with those of authority. Because I was boy crazy as a young girl, my romantic antics were always getting me into hot water. And having the freedom from parents every summer…sometimes that hot water boiled over.

Summer camp...how I loved going to summer camp. Well...from 8 years old and on I loved it, but my parents decided at 6, I was old enough to attend the most religious Jewish camp there was on the entire earth. I don't think Israel had anything that intense. Now…please note...I had never once been to Temple, did not know one thing about our religion, yet for 8 weeks, 8 very long weeks, at 6 years old, during what should have been the most fun time of year for any child, we had to attend services, or some semblance of a service, every single morning and evening. Are you kidding me? And what was that language they were speaking during those services? I knew it was definitely not anything I had ever heard before. The guttural sounds that came from their throats sounded like they were gonna project loogies out onto our heads. I later found out that was Hebrew. And to this day, I still do not understand one word of it. Ok…maybe one word…Shalom. Oh yeah…and Mazel Tov. Oh…and L’chaim. (One of those loogie words I was referring to). But that’s about it.

Being so young, I was homesick every single minute of every hour of every day. My sister went to the same camp, but the camp was so enormous, I rarely got to see her, except when it was time for services. And even then, they wouldn't allow us to see each other. I would spot her from a distance and run up to her crying, just for a hug. Then I got into trouble. Just for hugging my sister. So I would sneak out in search of her... and that was my start to a life of crime and corruption.

I stayed home the following summer. My whining and tirades were enough to convince my parents that a summer at the beach would be much more peaceful than daily phone calls from Jewish central complaining about their kid undermining camp rules. But the summer after that...off to another camp, which I went to for the next 5 summers, and those were the greatest. That’s not to say I didn't get into trouble...of course I did. I discovered boys. And there were lots of them. And they all needed my attention. Jock during the day, stealth boy hunter at night. Well, maybe not so stealth. I had a secret mission almost every night, and that was to find the boy's cabin holding hostage my boy du jour. Of course I never actually made it all the way to the boy's end of the camp. Those prison lights they had spotlighting me as I was sneaking my way across, made me fall to the ground and confess all my sins. And each time I got caught, I had to run circles around the tennis courts, sometimes in the rain, for hours on end. Just walking and running and walking and running, sometimes soaking wet. That stopped my antics…for maybe a minute.

My boy crazed phase didn’t diminish any by the time I went on my teen tour across the country at 14. But the price I had to pay was a little harsher. And more often. There were 100 kids: 50 boys, 50 girls, and 20 counselors. 100 teenage kids with screaming, raging hormones. We toured the U.S. in vans towing Apache tent trailers. 10 kids to a trailer. That summer I discovered the wild side that had been dormant within for my first 13 years of life. Although I am usually the one to follow all the rules, [because I’m such a chicken-shit], that summer showcased the womanly beast within. (As womanly as you can get at 14). My best friend and I were always looking for ways each night to get away from our girls’ group and go visit the boys. We would make it just so far, for just so long, and then bam! They always found us. I guess after a few times, a pattern is formed; conditioning, so to speak. It wasn’t real hard for the counselors to figure out where we would be. They just had to figure out which trailer we’d be in. And to our dismay…they always did.

The retribution for our first offense wasn’t too extreme. They figured if we were okay sneaking out of our trailer at night to visit the boys in their trailers, then we would be ok sleeping outside of the trailer, too. They did allow us to use our sleeping bags, but we had to sleep on the rocky pavement with no cushions underneath or any protection overhead. Needless to say, they were very restless nights. And since we were so restless, we made sure everyone could hear just how restless we were, therefore making it a little more fun for us.

Because sleeping on rocks certainly was not going to deter us from doing it again, when the next time came to slipping out ‘ever so quietly’, we found out that we were not ‘ever so quiet’. When they caught us, they came up with the notion that keeping us from going to a Dodger game in L.A., would cause us to cease and desist the next time we had the urge. Yeah…I don’t think so. So, of course, we went again a few nights later. We thought we had gotten away with it the third time…but noooo. Not even close. It still baffles me why the boys never got into trouble. I mean, I know we were the ones who snuck out to go to them, but they never told us to go away because they didn’t want to get into trouble themselves. They sat and talked with us and hung out just as much as we did. But we paid the price. And that third time was a doozy. We had to miss going to Disneyland. Not only did they keep us from the happiest place on earth, but we had to do the laundry of every single person in the entire camp while they were off to see Tinkerbell. Eight hours of laundry. Eight hours straight of laundry! In a creepy, sleazy laundromat in L.A. Did I mention it was eight hours of washing and drying and folding everybody’s disgustingly dirty laundry? We were going crazy sitting there between loads imagining everyone else screaming as they went down the spirals of the Matterhorn, shaking hands with Mickey and Goofy, and singing ‘It’s a Small World’ 80 gazillion times because they couldn’t get the song out of their heads. We really did pay the price that time. Eight frickin’ hours worth!

After that, we decided we didn’t want to miss out on any other great adventures, so we followed all (most) of the rules and got to go on every excursion for the rest of the summer. Unfortunately, we had chosen to get grounded in the most fun state we visited…but I still got to have my first make-out session with a boy. We snuck out behind the trees in Yosemite National Park, so therefore, California wasn’t a complete bust.

And I proceeded to make out in every state we drove through on our way back east. What a learning experience my summer of 14 turned out to be. In so many ways.

My capers continued throughout the rest of my teenage years well into my 20’s…and 30’s…and even my 40’s. Of course they got a little less innocent as the years progressed, but those are for another blog.

So what does a 50 something do nowadays to release that little girl, boy crazed, troublemaker within? A few tips for creating some middle-aged excitement that doesn’t necessarily have to do with the opposite sex:

1. Take more than the 6 items of clothing allowed into the dressing room
2. Talk the waiter into giving you a breakfast burrito even though it’s after 11AM
3. Use an expired coupon
4. Go through the 15 item express lane with 16 items
5. Or sneak into the dressing room for a quickie with Gunther…the hunky manager

Now...THAT's trouble!

One...Not the Loneliest Number

There's a lot to be said for being alone and single. There’s more to be said for being in a relationship…but since my status is currently single, let’s concentrate on those positives instead. I know many who are not capable of doing that and jump from one relationship to another. But I have to say, I have gained so much knowledge about myself from staying single for a few years after each of my relationships. It gave me time to sit back and reflect on what the hell just happened and what was I thinking. Maybe a little too much time!

I'm not going to bash on the men I've been involved with. Well…yes I am. I’m just not going to name names. You never know who reads these blogs and who knows who. So without saying whether it was a particular husband, or boyfriend, or just some random person…I will just tell you what I've learned from them, in no particular order.

I have learned the new meaning of a compliment. I never realized that a compliment comes in the form of a criticism [or so he claimed]. "You're smart, you should read more".  "Your eyes are pretty, you should wear less make-up". "Your eyes are pretty, you should cut your bangs much shorter so I can see them." "I like your body, you should wear different clothes to complement it." "You have nice hair, why do you wear it so long." My answer back..."Have you MET ME? Or is there another woman you thought you were dating? Go back to the line-up and pick out your Barbie, Svengali."

I have a much louder voice than I ever knew could come out of this mouth. Screaming matches...I do not like them at all, although I was forced to participate in a few. When did talking go out of fashion? And who can think when you can't hear yourself over the shouting? I lost every fight because the decibel made my head throb. I found out I'm not good at comebacks on the spot. In fact, I’m pretty frickin’ awful. I come back with some of the most inane retorts ever. My best one…”Well, yeah, so”. I need time to think. I need time to collect my thoughts. I need calm to have a reasonable conversation and then I actually CAN have a good repartee. I have also discovered how many types of ear plugs are on the market. I would sneak them in my ears while he was ranting.

I AM superwoman. So many of us moms are. I never thought of myself as having super powers, but I do. I'm not sure which superior being I am, but I definitely fall into one of those "SUPER" categories. I could change diapers, do laundry, hold down a full time job, take care of the bills, the housekeeping, the meals, attend school functions, kill spiders, unclog the toilet, help with homework, read bedtime stories, and satisfy the sexual appetite of my partner...all in a day's time, while my partner did......hmmm...I still haven't quite figured that one out yet.

I am a good listener. I found out that men's ears are there for decoration only. (And maybe to hold their eye glasses in place).  In just a few conversations I learn so much history about the person I'm dating. But I don't understand why they don't ask questions back. Probably because their ears don't do incoming sounds. I don't like to talk about myself but it does get kind of boring when all we are talking about is him: his job, his hobbies, his kids, his income, his every single frickin' thing... for hours, and hours, and hours. My favorite quote of all time..."Ok, enough about me. Let's talk about you. What do YOU think about ME?" Being a good listener can go only so far. Those ear plugs sure come in handy. Good thing I purchased them in bulk.

When did blowing your nose into your hands in the shower become ok? I have no idea if this section actually belongs here but I’m including it anyway because it’s disgusting and I don’t miss that at all. One of the great things about being single…not putting up with other’s disgusting bathroom habits. I mean seriously…blowing your nose in the shower? I know you’re in the shower and you can wash your hands, but still…ewwwww. And I’ve had more than one guy do that, so that means it is a guy thing, not just one person’s gross habit. Although I guess there may be some women out there who do that? Nah…I don’t think so. Of course there are quite a few other ‘men only’ proclivities…the ball scratching, the remote hogging, the farting, the burping, the blah, blah, blah…but we’ll just stick with the nose blowing shower visual at this time.

Finances. I learned that going from a two income household to a one income household is not exactly what I thought it would be. I should have thought that part out a little more thoroughly before I chose to be single. But the positives did outweigh the negatives at the time. Next time, I’ll remember to think that one through a little better. But I definitely learned from it. I found out being a "nice guy" and asking for nothing, gets you nothing. So nothing is what I got towards the house, the kids, the expenses. But I did gain knowledge and knowledge is power. And like I said...I have super powers. Now I just have to use them to find that SUPER man. I’ll bet my real name is Jaime Sommers.

Please note...I  love men. Man bashing for blogging purposes only. I hope this didn't offend anyone of the male gender.



 

I'm just not that into you

Has the definition of “no, thank you” been revised by Webster and I’m just not aware of it? I’m finding that people are a little denser than I was giving them credit for. Well…I might just be referring to men only.  And maybe just not the phrase “no, thank you”, but the whole blow off thing in general.

Are men really that unaware of the excuses women tell them to get out of dates or commitments they made with them? I always thought that the number one excuse women gave was that their old boyfriend had resurfaced and they were going to give it another try. Men actually buy that shit? Really?  I guess I’m better at lying than I thought I was.

I always pride myself on being so honest, but the only time I can’t be is when I have to tell a man that I’m “just not that into him”.  It’s so hard for me to fess up to someone what’s wrong with him. How do you tactfully say you are just downright ugly? Your nose is too big, your eyes are too close together and have you ever heard of 1-800-dentist? There really is no nice way to say that. Or how do you tell him that you aren’t interested in someone who can’t see his feet that are at the bottom of his calves beneath his oversized, gigantic belly?  Or that you can’t communicate with someone who will only listen to the sound of his own voice…and anytime you try to chime in…he has no clue that someone else is actually speaking besides himself and thinks we don’t have any right to.

I’m trying to figure out how I tend to choose men that have some major thing NOT going for them. They are either cheap…like the one guy who whispered in my ear at dinner, “I’ll pick up the tab THIS time”…are you kidding me? Seriously? Or the guy that decided my ass was up for grabs an hour into our date, while we were shooting pool. I was leaning over the table and all of a sudden he gooses me! Really?  Did my butt just cry out “free for all” so come and get it? Then I was having a drink with Mr. Woody Allen personality who started yelling at me when I compared him to Annie Hall’s boyfriend. PSYCHO! And I couldn’t understand a thing he was talking about. I’m not sure if he was too intellectual for me or really was so dumb, I couldn’t follow his gibberish.

There have been those who are so boring…I actually would be snoozing with my eyes open. Did he not notice the glassy look in my eyes and my dream state? Or he thought I was so enamored with him that I was starry eyed? Again…seriously? How do you not know you are boring the shit out of someone?

One of my favorites…the one who readily admitted up front at dinner, that he had an STD. If you’re going to share something that intimate, couldn’t you have done it on the phone so I could have not wasted my time and gas money meeting you in person. And then telling me he likes the dark better and doesn’t really like going out in the daytime. His pasty skin when I first laid eyes on him should have been the tell-tail sign, but I always like to give people the benefit of the doubt. The fangs…that was the dead giveaway.  And I’m serious…his eye teeth were definitely hanging lower than most. I quickly left that one before I was drained of my blood, which may have been a little too late after he divulged the STD info. Yeah…I wanted HIM badly!

                                                                     

So how DO you tell him that you are just not that into him without completely hurting his feelings? I did write a standard Dear John email to send (because I’m too chicken to do it in person), and I have used it with some success, saying I just didn’t feel the chemistry. And as I’ve said before, it’s all about the chemistry…

But I must say…I’m done with the test tube phase. Time to discover the almost-perfect mate.

X-RATED (only because i have kids!)...read at your own risk...SEXUAL CONTENT, FOUL LANGUAGE

Don't you think it's a little bit ironic that what a woman goes thru in her later years of life incorporates the word "MEN" into her hormonal progression? Men - o - pause! Are they stopping our lives....are they holding us back from the sexuality that we would have? That really makes no sense. That's not what it is. Men would never hold us back from our sexual drive! Men are not the problem, they are the innocent victims. Then what is it? Because I am certainly not going to man bash....I love men. I love them as husbands....I love them as friends...I love them in any capacity as long as they are good to me and allow me to be good to them...so what is it that makes me as a 50+ year old woman not want to jump all over that? It’s not for their lack of trying! It’s……………………………………….

MEN-O FUCKING-PAUSE

Our wonderfully predetermined hormonal imbalance that decides who we are going to become over the age of 50, whether we like it or not. Who we will become whether it has anything to do with where we came from, or if we have a choice. Seriously? Who is this sexually dormant woman within this previously sexually active body? Hello?????? Are you in there??? Yoo hoo….come out!

WTF! I want my old persona back. I want that person from 10+ years ago that wanted to jump on every guy who walked past me. He didn’t have to be great looking, he didn’t have to be an athlete, he didn’t have to be wealthy, he didn’t have to have a brain…he just had to have a penis! A functioning penis. That’s all I wanted. And now…who gives a shit. Vibrators are working for me just fine…and even those…are feeling a little slighted sitting in my drawer.

Ahhhh….a penis…how I long for those days! But I digress…

Hair has become an integral part of my every day life. I believe they are called whiskers. Whiskers were what would rub against MY face after a day’s hair growth from my boyfriend/husband. Whiskers was the name of my neighbor’s cat. Whiskers are now part of my monthly hair removal regimen. Thank you menopause. The ever sprouting goatee is looking just fine.

Dry as a desert. Since there are men and women reading this (and possibly my kids)…I won’t go into detail. But what actually happened to becoming wet? The deluge also stopped with the demon called menopause. And those hormonal crèmes…yeah…love the globs secreting during the next 24 hours of injection. Very sexually romantic to have wet patches in your undies. And now I know why someone invented mini pads! Which will eventually grow and develop into Depends.  Can’t wait for THAT transition.

Sleep…I seem to remember that there is something called a good night’s sleep. I believe it had to do with getting a certain amount of hours in ONE nite. HUH? That really doesn’t ring a bell to me. Suffice it to say…5 hours on and off…is one of the best nights I could ask for. Oh…and for the night sweats…changing my sheets on a daily basis…and my sleep wear…has become very profitable for Victoria Secret and Bed, Bath and Beyond.

So what have I left out?  Oh yeah…that lack of elasticity left in the skin…the droopy, saggy cheeks that are now just baggage left from earlier years. Jowls…I could pack an entire suitcase into those cheeks. That’s a whole other story on plastic surgery…to be continued.

Let’s get back to sex…

I want my sexuality back. Or should I say my sexual drive back. My sexuality has always been there.  I don’t give a shit about anything else…just give me that. I’ll live with the moustache and beard, I’ll live with the night sweats, I’ll live with the whatever else…but give me back the desire to jump the next guy that crosses my path and absolutely love not caring who he is…I just want to love it! I miss it. I want it. And for those women who say “now that it’s gone” they don’t miss it…I say BULL FUCKING SHIT!