Clairol Failed My Forehead

foreheaddyeBecause I like to amuse myself in the weirdest of ways, I took time tonight to get rid of the tinsel in the center of my hairline that masked itself as a gray. If I wanted to decorate for Christmas, believe me, I can think of better ways to do it. I’m more of a red bow girl anyway. So I’m walking through K-Mart and settled on Clairol #44 Color Me Rojo Vibrante. Nothing says 35 is not old like hot red hair and a killer pair of heels. I am officially about to be the hottest woman in my living room. Well as hot as any woman can be who dyed her forehead red.

I see the wrinkle across my forehead in that picture and I’m too focused on the blood-spatter style mark at my hairline. If nothing else, I’d make a good murder victim. You know, my step mother has never dyed her hair a day in her life. Its pretty spectacular hair, all long and healthy and shit. Ugh, like I needed another reason for her to drive me insane. People who age well irritate me, and I’m not even aging all that badly. Thanks Dad for those genes I guess. 

I remember when I thought 30 was old. Our parents are always old, well not my Dad. To this day I’m surprised he has gray hair. You’d have to meet him to understand, he’s young I assure you. Anyway, my insecurities are obviously running rampant, and age seems to be the kicker. In my head I’m not remotely old, but the fact that one of my new titles is GRANDMOTHER, it’s pretty darn bad. 

lifein30sAdd that to the thought of someone seeing me naked, and forget it. I’m a ridiculous mess. It’s hysterical that the act is a thousand times less intimidating than the thought of it. By act i mean getting naked, not sex. Sheesh, what kind of blog do you think this is? I can strut naked and not think twice, but the build up, or thought of another person seeing me sans clothing freaks me out and sends me into hyper awareness of every perceived flaw have. I say perceived because I’ve learned that there are parts of my body that make me cringe, that I’ve received compliments on. Go figure. 

My neurosis needs a break I think. A bottle of wine like described to me at the water front, expensive enough that I forget how much I dislike wine. A bowl of strawberries that are all sweet and juicy without a tart one in the bunch. Enigma playing through headphones in my ears as two strong hands massage my body from head to toe. (Oh yeah, and no damn kids for miles.)

And a night that ends in an orgasm that makes all these insecurities fade away. 





Stupid Mosquitos


If I’m going to be bitten and have my blood sucked out with a fiendish passion, I really would prefer a tall dark handsome vampire who wants to shower me with lavish gifts and offer amazing sex. The fact that I have no less than seven mosquito bites while I remained fully clothed is a testament to their tenacity. One went through my jeans and bit me right on the ass. So now I will perfect my female caveman, and figure out ways to scratch my derriere in public. Who said the life of a single woman was boring? Oh wait, that would be me.

So the 100 first dates that I was going to blog about has turned into 1 first date since that post, and then a second… and then a third. For the third, we went to the waterfront in town and walked around while watching fish jump in the moonlight, and listened as ducks squawked obnoxiously. I had a close encounter with a spider, but my date saved me. He saved me twice because I’d of fainted if I realized that a spider had actually touched me. Just the thought of those eight legs and creepy eyeballs freaks me out. Bugs aside, it was a romantic evening.

As the night wound down, we sat in my car and listened to music, where he sang along to some of his favorite songs. (This of course, was after we’d already established the date had to end because we both had to get up early.) The dates we’ve had were simple, there was no grand gesture, no surprise flowers that make me end up in the ER, its two people spending time together and the time extending for hours. It’s fun, non-threatening, and not over whelming. The biggest concern I have each time we are together is which jeans will make my ass look great, and which bra makes me perky. Even my nails are painted. Well it looks like a toddler did it, but hey, they’re pink. When I became a financially stable adult human, I’m getting a manicure and pedicure every single week until I’m too old to enjoy pretty things.


I’ve lived in this mode of survival for so long that living in the moment is foreign to me. It was unexpected when in waltzes in this man, who looks at me with an intensity that I can relate to. It’s unnerving but I think he sees me. Not the ‘me’ I share with the world, but the ‘me’ I actually am. He didn’t even mind that I blogged about our dates, which made me smile because most people aren’t all that fond of being exposed through the thoughts of another.

So a little over a week, 3 dates, mosquitos and spiders. My toes hurt from cute shoes, my ass has a bug bite, and I’m having the time of my life. This weekend is my last weekend off for a while. Unfortunately he’ll be out of town, so I’m going to go out and sing. This much happiness contained in one body cannot be healthy, so I’m going to exhaust myself with karaoke.



I Am ‘THAT’ Girl


Life is funny sometimes. The last two men I dated were around me what felt like 24 hours a day and 7 days a week. I literally felt smothered every waking second. If I was at work, they’d call or text me. I struggled with this incessant need to be in contact with me. I don’t talk to my children hourly, I sure don’t want someone else invading my day like that. It drove me bonkers.

So now I’m talking to a man who barely texts. That’s not to say he doesn’t respond, he does, but usually in one word or short phrases. Guess what, it makes me insecure. How bizarre is that? I know in my head that he wants to talk to me and spend time with me, but the whole short ended statements has me on the sidelines scratching my head. I made a joke with my friend Brenda, that I wouldn’t text him, at all, until he sent me a message because I didn’t want him to feel like I was this crazed woman who blew up his phone. I lasted an hour before I sent good morning. What the hell is wrong with me?

I’m ‘THAT’ girl. You know, the one who we all secretly laugh about behind her back because she’s going to self-sabotage everything in her life. Have I mentioned lately how much I hate dating? I’m ridiculously bad at the male-female dynamic. How did women do it, back in the day before cell phones? Spend a week apart from me and I’ve already planned our courtship, marriage, and subsequent divorce in my head. If you give me the opportunity, I’ll do all your thinking for you and it never ends well in my head.


I have to be driving this poor man crazy with my need to send him messages. I’m working on cell phone detox. I’m going to ask my kid to password my cell phone so I can only use it during hours I’m at home. You know things are bad when you’re going to ground yourself from your cell phone. As I sit here, staring at the blinking light on my phone, I know it’s not him, but I’m going to check anyway just on the hope that he sent me something.

Ugh. I need rehab for texting. That would actually suck though because I communicate with everyone via text. The only people I ever actually call are my children, when I can’t avoid it, my sister, when I’m driving, and my best friend when I have more to say than my fingers feel like texting. I don’t know why I feel he needs to know every random ass thought in my head. Trust me, I’m just not that interesting.

So as I finish this up, my first thought? Should I text him that he’s mentioned in a blog…

I need mental help.



Romance… What Romance?


Now I know that I’m not the most romantic person in the world. It doesn’t usually occur to me to do little things like put sticky notes with I love you in a lunch bag. (Seriously, who does that?) I don’t call just to say ‘I love you’. (That would irritate the piss out of me.) Don’t call me just to say I love you, I’ll ask you what you broke or what you want. I’ve never sent a man flowers, or other impromptu man gifts. I did once send my ex-boyfriend rocks. It was a great gift, I promise, but really, I sent rocks.


This isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate romantic gestures. I think sending flowers is stupid, and I’m allergic to most of them. I don’t want stupid flowers, but you know, the card is pretty neat. You know what I find romantic? The husband of 30 years who fills his wife’s gas tank every Sunday so she doesn’t have to. I find the one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. Its practical, it’s a reminder that he’s thinking of her, that he cares for her enough to carry this one burden. That to me is more romantic than a trinket.

I went on a date this week, one of my ‘First Dates’ that I promised to blog about, and I noticed a few things. One, I’m really bad at dating. This has not changed. Another is that he sat down beside me while we had coffee, not across from me. While awkward at first, I found that I enjoyed having the personal connection there. He wanted to be close to me, and made it known just by choosing to sit where he did. He asked to hold my hand when we left the coffee house and went outside to a picnic area. I lead a jaded life, I know, but that melted my heart a little bit. He respected me enough to asked.

I can’t wait to go out with him again because I enjoyed his company. I found him interesting, and engaging. He also smelled fantastic, which is such a big thing with me. The entire experience was a leap above the past few dates I’ve been on. I feel like I met someone that was equally interested in me, the person, as he was in my fleshy assets. Time will tell if that’s true or not, but I didn’t walk away thinking all men suck, and I’d rather die single. I didn’t want the date to end, the night to end, or my conversation with him to end. Of course it did, I’m not moving in to the picnic table outside of Dunken Donuts, that’s just weird.

So that was my 1 good first date, after so many obnoxious failures. How do you define romance? What is a romantic gesture to you? What’s your take on flowers as a romantic gesture?

Applauding the Fame Whores

famewhoreYou know what I hate? The word whore. Seriously, it makes my grind my teeth just to see it. To me the word signifies every ounce of separation between the sexes that still exists. What was once used to condemn, is now used as a commonplace word in social interactions. It goes so far beyond the whore vs stud debate, the word itself is defined by Websters as a woman who engages in sexual acts for money. To be fair, the second definition does state a male who engages in sexual acts for money.

We both know that’s not the only time the word whore is used. Anytime a person puts their business out for the world to consume, they’re a whore. Kim Kardashian, has been called a whore because she made a sex tape and capitalized on it. Farrah Abraham had a kid as a teenager, screwed a porn star, and wrote a book, yes by golly, she’s a fame whore. My personal favorite female villain is Kate Gosselin. This woman pops out a bunch of kids at once, and suddenly there is no worse mother on the planet. Her name is synonymous with fame whore.

famequoteStand and behold what we of a society as created. You know why these women are famous? Because we made them that way. So get off your high horse and stop vilifying them. I applaud each of them. I hope they continue to do what works for them until the well of adulation is dried up and the public no longer has an interest in their insane lives.

We as women should not be so quick to judge another on the choices they’ve made with their lives. So she fucked someone in a video. Pretty sure some of the things I’ve done is still illegal in some states. So she puts her business on television for the world to see and is ‘exploiting’ her children. News flash, it takes a heck of a lot of money to raise a kid. They’re clean, well dressed, have a home, and probably access to therapy. They’re fine. I’m poor, a single parent, and raised my kids as best I could and they probably STILL will need therapy.

I’m going to get off my soap box here shortly I promise. Just think about something before I go. Why do you hate them so much? Me? I could totally care less about any of them other than I respect that they’re doing what they need to do in order to make a life for themselves. Beyond that, I wouldn’t know they existed. So kudos to the Kardashian family, to the Gosselin family, heck even to the Dugger family for making a life for themselves with what they were born with.


And You Thought PMS Was Bad

quitsmokingIn case the chronic bad mood, or short tempered fuse didn’t give it away. I’m attempting to quit smoking. I’ve cleaned the bad people from my life, it’s time now to clean the habits that I’ve spent a lifetime developing. This upcoming birthday has me freaked out thanks to a rather backhanded comment my son made. He said mom, you’re going to be half of 70 on Friday. I started reviewing my family history and realized that I can name more than a handful of people that share my DNA that didn’t live to see 70. I don’t know why this thought freaked me out, but it did, enough to make me look at myself in the mirror and discover that I both loved and hated what I saw.

On the positive side, I found that I’m stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. That I honestly could give two shits what someone thinks of how I look, which as a female, is a pretty big deal. I can honestly say that I have no fear getting naked. It took me hella alotta years to say that. I’m also unapologetic in my ambitions. I want what I want and I’m willing to work toward it. I’m more accepting of my mistakes. I go big or go home when I am having problems. I’m so used to being in control that when things spiral, I don’t know how to handle it. I had to learn this the hard way.

smokingquit I hate that I smoke. Its not sexy, it’s not fun, it’s not attractive, and for fuck sake, I have asthma. I mean seriously, how dumb do you have to be to carry your cigarettes and your inhaler in the same damn pocket? Yet I’ve done this faithfully for years. What kind of example am I setting for the little people who look to me for their decision making process?

Here’s to quitting, let’s hope for all our sakes’ that the anger doesn’t override my common courtesy.


Verbal Bondage

bondageAs I drove home today, I got the urge to let out a primal scream. Just something to release the frustration that is housed so deeply in my body today. I’m all over the map emotionally, so I thought that it would make me feel better to let it all out. Only, it turns out I can’t. I was crippled by the perception others would have if they heard me. Never mind that I’m in my car, going 60 miles a highway, on a fairly deserted stretch. I literally couldn’t scream for fear of being heard. Fear has silenced me.

Of everything I’ve done, said, or thought, you’d think that I wouldn’t let a little thing like embarrassment guide me, but truth be told, once I’m embarrassed, I’m done. I simply cannot handle the ridicule I feel when someone is staring at me, or God forbid, laughing at me. The worst thing you can do to me is make me the butt of a joke. I have such an off sense of self that I crave respect like most people crave air. I need it to feel justified in my accomplishments.

fucksocietyIt is these same fears of social guidelines that keep me from doing so many of the things I would probably enjoy. I love to dance, I’m lousy at it, but I enjoy it. I so rarely do it because I just don’t want to look foolish. I don’t know when I became this person, this woman who lets what others think guide her. The twenty year old me would kick the thirty four year old me’s ass.

This blog is about my thoughts, my humor, my fears, and my aspirations. I stopped blogging a long time ago because someone told me that they thought the idea was stupid. Well, here’s my little rebellion against other peoples perception of me. I’m going to write what I damn well please, and encourage anyone who wants to comment, share, forward, or point and laugh. I need to break free from my shell, and stop going out of my way to conform.

Me and my accomplishments are telling you and your criticisms to fuck off.



The Power of Shame

peanutsSo, I’m not the most compassionate human in history. The thoughts in my head would leave me ostracized and possibly hunted with torches and pitchforks. I’m annoyed today, so therefore my thoughts are a little on the harsh side. I’d really like to march up to the person that I’m annoyed at and tell them how rude they are. I hate rudeness, there is never a call or a reason for it. Have common courtesy in life or don’t socialize. Its just that simple to me. But instead I will secretly tell them in my head that their ugliness is not welcome in my world.

Except a part of me has this need to fix things. If I think I have wronged someone in some way, I have this deep need to fix it. The expectation of my life is that if someone has done the same to me, THEY should feel that way too. This is where my crazy gets really interesting, not only do I hold people to my standards, I expect them to hold themselves there too. This is why I spend Friday nights alone. Or because most of my friends work weird hours like I do. One of the two. Ugh, I’m driving my own self crazy today. All because one person didn’t have the decency to hold to my standards.

So what have I learned from this?

1. I truly am the bigger asshole because I judge others by standards they don’t even have.

2. My perception of reality is skewed.

3. If I don’t start opening my mouth when something happens, that I perceive as rude, I’m going to drive myself crazy.

4. I need a stronger backbone.

5. I really like making numbered lists.

Today I went back to the dating website and responded to a few of the people that only sent me an email because my boobs look hot in that picture. I thought about updating the picture and removing it, but then thought eh, if nothing else, the attention is like a bandaid for my boredom. I’m going to go on ten first dates, and blog about each one.

Life amuses me greatly.




Series of Unfortunate Text Conversations

peoplemakesenseThis new adventure that I have found myself on has let me in on a few little secrets I’ve been keeping from myself. The first being that deep in the cockles of my heart, I’m a shallow mean girl. I had no idea that I had anything in common with the plastics of our society. Below are a few examples:

Meet “Ted”.  Ted is 40, works in a restaurant and does lawn work on the side. Ted also uses phrases like cupcake and sugarbaby when texting me. Ted, I’m sorry but its hard to take a man seriously when he uses childish endearments and works at entry level establishments.  Seriously, who uses the term sugarbaby?

Meet “John” – John is a 30 year old socially awkward male who happens to have a complex where he believes the world is inferior to him. Now John has a decent job, but not something that would earn him the title king of the universe. John also thought it was a great idea to send me cock pictures. I sent him back advertisements for penis enhancement drugs and a toy ‘guaranteed’ to make it grow.

Now, meet my personal favorite. Meet “Alex’. Alex is an attractive male, good job, pays his child support AND does community service. (Not even because he’s court ordered, he volunteers!). Sounds good right? Alex is the epitome of sexist asshat. He actually told me that women would enjoy life better if we let our men take the lead in our lives. I told him I’m pretty sure Hitler said the same thing to the Jews.

seriouslywtfNow, I readily admit to my imperfections. I’m 34, neurotic, demanding, bossy, and generally like to have things my own way. Seriously though, when did it become okay to be an asshole? It would never occur to me to send random naked pictures, give people I don’t even know overtly affectionate monikers, or tell them basically they are too stupid to run their own lives.

I’m going to continue this neurotic little quest for first dates that end badly because it amuses me. If nothing else this has gotten me writing again, which is always a good thing. I’ve missed it.

So in a nutshell, I’m a shallow bitch swimming in a world of douchbags. Ah, dating in my thirties is indeed interesting.



The Power Of Boobs

exboyfriendThose of you who know me, probably know that I’m a serial dater. I’m 5 feet of hella picky with a dash of easily bored. I’d been on a dating website for years, when I’d get bored or wanted to meet someone new I’d skulk on over and scroll through men. I’d message fifteen or so, because then the odds are greater someone will message back. This is where I find my ex boyfriends. I really should just put up a sign, now seeking the latest ex in my life. The last ex was smart though, he had me take down my dating profile and declare my Facebook for all the world to see. Did I say smart? I meant paranoid and a little psychotic thrown in.

So on to today, I put a new profile back on that dating website. This time I had a picture up that has a fair amount of cleavage. It’s not like I can really hide it, my boobs are as big as my head. My phone has been blowing up with chats, and ‘Wants to meet you’ notifications. I literally am dumbfounded. There are other pictures up that have the same me in them as before, but suddenly because you see two balls of flesh with a line through them, I’m a hot commodity.

I would love to meet that special one someday who understands me and connects with me on levels that others don’t. Im pretty sure it will be pink with pearls and come in a discreetly covered brown box from Adam and Eve. For now i’ll continue my quest with dating. When I do actually meet someone I like, whether its through a friend, a website, or out and about, my inner social geek comes out to play. Its great for first dates, but usually not second date inclusive.

As my son told me, I’m about to be half of 70.

In nine days I will be half of 70.

Ugh, there goes my phone again. Apparently another person likes my boobs. I’m both personally flattered and irritated over this reaction. How unfair is life that I seem to only have one good asset.