Skin to Win

In case you haven’t had the privilege, after you hit 40, and particularly if you have pasty white ghost skin like I do, you can expect dermatologists to treat you like you’re a murder suspect with actively bleeding defensive wounds.  I have an upcoming appointment and I’m thinking of just bringing along a boombox so I can play the Law & Order TV theme song on repeat while I’m sitting in the waiting room.  It’s the only thing that really adequately pumps me up for all the interrogating, strip-searching, and nude photographing that’s about to ensue.

First, as you walk into the exam room, they start circling you and looking you up and down.  You swear you hear the assistant whisper, “Who you tryin’ to mess with ese?  Don’t you know I’m loco?”, but you just stare straight ahead, because you don’t want them to smell your fear.

Then they turn the spotlight on you and get all “Where were you on the day in question, when the UV Index was blah blah?  Were you wearing sunblock and wide-brimmed hat?”, and you’re like, “Yes.  Absolutely.  I swear.  I haven’t had discernible tan lines in over 25 years.  Please just don’t put me in the hole.”  That’s when they give you that look Detective Benson gives to Detective Stabler on SVU when they know you’re lying, so you just let your body go limp so they don’t set you on fire by tasering your paper gown.

This is one of the reasons I always keep my sun hat in the car, by the way.  Sure, it keeps the sun off my highly sun-burnable face, but I also may have to produce the sun hat as evidence at this appointment, and I don’t want to go down on some trumped up charges due to a technicality.

One time, I left out a key detail about a mole and they treated me like I had forgotten to mention that I knew where the murder weapon was all along.  If you don’t quite recall whether that mole was there the last time you came in, you better believe they are pulling up old photographs of your body to try to trap you into lying under oath.

And I’ve gotta tell you, having someone bust out nude photographs of you from a year ago that were taken under fluorescent lights by someone who is not an experienced photographer just so they can prove you wrong about something is its own special brand of humiliation.  It’s not even like you’re auditioning for a Whitesnake video, where there’s a chance some good may come of it.  It’s all bad.  Every bit of it.

The only all-good that will come of it is that they might tell you that your skin is not currently killing you.

A semi-good outcome means they pull out a scalpel and only slice off one piece of your body and say, “Yeah, good luck with that one!” as they make the sign of the cross on their chest and then drop the petri dish into an express envelope to the lab.

A typical outcome means they will look at your forehead and tell you they have a special right now on Botox, and now is definitely the time to act on it, because you’re really past the “preventative years” on those forehead lines and you need to shift into “active maintenance” against the rawhide baseball glove doggie chew-toy that your forehead has become.  You politely decline and then they treat you like the wife in every Lifetime movie who won’t press charges against the husband, even though everyone knows that bastard needs to go to jail.

You schedule a follow-up appointment for next year, pick up what’s left of your dignity, and then thank them for their excellent care, because obviously, you have Stockholm Syndrome since you keep subjecting yourself to this.

They will get back at you for not buying the Botox, by the way. The next time you come in they will “accidentally” call you Mr. Belvedere when they call your name out in the waiting room, and then glance at your face before looking back down at the chart to say, “Oh, my mistake.  I’m sure you must get that all the time, though!  Make sure you take a look at this week’s special on Botox!”

It seems I’ve spent the first few decades of my life being told by doctors to stop being hysterical about the things I’m worried about, and the most recent years being told by doctors to be hysterical about everything.  It’s some kind of trite ant/grasshopper Zen Buddhism shit, which means Coldplay is recording a song about it as we speak.

Rock of Love: The Hobo Gift That Keeps on Giving

Prior to finding the best husband in the world, I had the misfortune of dating a lot of other musicians who I now prefer to call “Ewwww!!!!”

In years past, I wrote often about the experiences, because I was light on time and those guys make for some easy comedy fodder.  As a person who is now older and wiser, I hesitate to share more stories because it just feels almost too easy.  It’s like pie-ing someone in the face for laughs, or trick-or-treating for herpes on the set of Saturday Night Fever.  There’s no challenge in it.  I mean, it’s practically slapstick.

But, alas, here we are.

Welcome to the jungle.  We’ve got hobo gifts.

I came home one day from work about 23 years ago, to find a “gift” left for me on my porch, leaned against my front door.  It was a bright blue, broken Cookie Monster bicycle baby-seat.  You know, the kind you attach to the back of your bicycle and strap a baby into it?  The fact that it was clearly pulled from someone’s trash, wasn’t functional, and that I had neither a baby nor a bicycle and therefore had no use for it, made me bite my lower lip, nod my head knowingly, and say, “Well my, my, my. Some musician must have a crush on little ol’ Maggie!”

Later on, as I received a call from my secret trash admirer from the payphone near the motel he was living in with his parents, I blushed.  I mean, it wasn’t even a collect call!  This guy cared. We made a date for him to “see me around sometime or whatever”, because he didn’t know what he was doing later.  With a commitment like that, I knew he was clearly smitten.

Musicians have a special kind of anti-knack for gift-giving, in that (a) they have no money because they refuse to get a real job, and (b) they are so self-absorbed that they could not care less what your likes and dislikes are.  You’re lucky they remember your name half the time and don’t just call you what you really are to them: “Car Payment”.  They set the bar so low for themselves that it’s a wonder that they don’t wake you up on Christmas morning with a turd in their hands whispering, “I made you a dook for Christmas!”

It reminds me of the time I was gifted with a toilet seat for Christmas.

While it was, in fact, a new toilet seat, which meant he actually walked into a store to purchase it instead of pulling it off a trash pile down the street, most ladies are expecting something a little more, I don’t know, romantic?  Than a toilet seat?  Pretty much any other item that can be found in a bathroom is more romantic than a toilet seat.  A toothbrush cup, a new rug, even a can of Lysol Scrubbing Bubbles – because those little cartoon guys on the label are kinda cute, right?

Granted, I had only spent $300 on a custom gift for him that he later sold for gas money, but that’s neither here nor there.

I think the best part, though, was that along with the toilet seat came a solid promise to install it.  Many years later, as I pitched the toilet seat into the trash after our breakup, still in its original, unopened clamshell packaging, I wondered if he was still planning on getting around to that.

Now, this is all fine and good, and I’m sure you’re probably thinking it doesn’t get worse than an old Cookie Monster bicycle baby-seat or a new toilet seat, but that’s where you’d be dead wrong, Hoss.

The best-worst hobo gift I ever received from a musician was a rock.

I can assure you that is not a euphemism for a diamond, by the way.  It was an actual rock.  And not a pretty rock from the desert, or one of those smooth river stones that someone painted to look like a sea turtle.  It was a strictly utilitarian rock.  Like the kind of rock I would have later thrown through his window when I found out he was routinely stealing money from my purse, that is, if he had actually had a home.

And it wasn’t like he had forgotten it was Christmas and just picked a rock up off the ground and handed it directly to me on Christmas morning, thinking I’d be none the wiser.  He had wrapped this rock up and taped the package shut – so it was a totally planned gift.

Now, for my gift to him, I had commissioned from a silversmith a large, custom-designed sterling silver charm for his black leather cord necklace (because 1990s) that took me weeks of planning and about half my paycheck but, again, that’s neither here nor there.

He, on the other hand, gave me a rock, wrapped in newspaper from my own recycling bin.  Now, I know you’re thinking that there’s nothing worse than receiving a rock wrapped in your own garbage newspaper as a gift, but that’s where you’d be dead wrong again, Hoss.

As he gave me the rock and I unwrapped it, he told me, in complete earnest, that it was a rock that had been given to him by his favorite ex-girlfriend, and now he was “entrusting” it to me to take care of it.

That’s right.  This was no ordinary rock.

This motherfucker gave me a secondhand rock.

He re-gifted me a rock.

He re-gifted me a rock from his ex-girlfriend and then said, out loud, to my face, “This is a rock my favorite ex-girlfriend gave to me and now I’m entrusting its care to you.” As a gift!

I’ve gotta say, though, whoever this ex-girlfriend was? She was waaaaay more experienced at dating musicians than I was, because by giving him this rock, she had clearly been aiming to give him a taste of his own medicine.  I assume it was her response to previously being given one of his other ex-girlfriend’s used maxi pads as a gift for Valentine’s Day.

I mean, she gave him a rock?  That’s some seriously next-level shit right there.  That’s the kind of shit Grace Slick or Stevie Nicks would pull.

Truth be told, I wish I actually could have met this ex-girlfriend, because I would have side-eyed her as I shook her hand and said, “Well played, ex-girlfriend. Well played.”  Then I would have sang “Wind Beneath My Wings” to her, because how else could she know she was my hero?

Seriously, she gave him a rock?  That woman should be goddamned President.

Home Is Where Nobody Annoying Is

There’s a stereotype of a woman “of a certain age”.  She’s sitting at home, wearing yoga pants, a breezy tank top that says something like “Me Time = Wine Time”, Ugg-style slipper booties, a face coated in three types of moisturizer, is eating Greek yogurt, and has glazed-over eyes from watching Orange is The New Black for three hours straight.

When you’re 25 and out every night until 5am, you think about this mature woman stereotype and assign a certain amount of derision to it, like that’ll never be you.  Fast asleep before 10pm after finishing your nightly Sleepytime herbal tea?  Nope!  After all, you’re a party monster!

At 25, on any random Monday, you might wake up on a band tour bus in a parking lot in Ft. Lauderdale wearing chaps and a feather boa, and not be able to quite figure out which person in the band you pulled them off from, so you steal a $20 that was stuffed down inside a bong on the kitchenette counter and call a cab home from the IHOP next door before anyone else wakes up and finds out you stole their master recordings for their next album (which means you leave at noon).  On your way home, while dry-heaving up Popov vodka into an Eckerd’s bag, you find a police badge and a container of Sea Monkeys in your purse, have no idea how they got there, and decide to just add them to your existing collection of police badges and Sea Monkeys that you keep on your thrift store nightstand at home, that is also covered in Delia’s catalogues and eye glitter-pots, because there is no such thing as too many lug-soled mary janes, or too much eye glitter.

(The foregoing anecdote is “hypothetical” for “legal reasons”. I’m sure I have no “idea” where your master recordings “are”. I’m “sure” nobody “smashed them with a hammer in their backyard after the shit you pulled”.)

And besides, what else were you gonna do?  Sit at home like a lame-ass?  You are most certainly NOT going to sit at home like a lame-ass.  You’re a wild woman of the world!

I was a wild woman of the world for many years there, and it was mostly a good ride.  Why, out of about 7,000 nights, there were 20 or 30 that were pretty damn amazing.  The rest were mostly, I don’t know, just okay? Waiting around for them to become amazing nights?

That being said, nowadays, as a woman of a certain age, I am not leaving my house on a Monday night for literally anything.  A-n-y-t-h-i-n-g.  Know why?

Because I am sitting at home, wearing yoga pants, a breezy tank top that says something like “Me Time = Wine Time”, Ugg-style slipper booties, a face coated in three types of moisturizer, am eating Greek yogurt, and have glazed-over eyes from watching Orange is The New Black for three hours straight – and I am not ashamed.

I will state my case thusly:

Sitting at home is awesome because I am home, which is a place that has been fully customized for my maximum comfort, and also contains my husband Bobby, who is my favorite person.  Unlike being out at a club, in my home there are no annoying weirdos trying to grope me, no loogies on the floor, nobody shooting up heroin in the corner, there is a working toilet and – as a bonus – nobody there is an asshole, except for me.

Yoga pants are awesome because they are engineered and designed to fit a woman’s body, and never give you muffin-top.  I would even venture to say that they are as comfortable as most men’s clothing.  (It’s really great how what are, essentially, women’s pajamas are almost as comfortable as the shit men get to wear every waking moment of their lives, isn’t it?)  Yoga pants still don’t have any useful pockets, though, so that’s how you know they are still made for women.  Given the discomfort and lack of useful pockets in 99% of women’s clothing, I guess clothing manufacturers assume that women are both (a) masochists, and (b) have a kangaroo pouch in their abdomen that they store stuff in.

Breezy tank tops are awesome because they are like wearing a delicate cloud around your torso, and allow you to hide the food baby that you created when you ate all those tater tots and sweet pickles earlier for lunch while you cried in your car to a Dionne Warwick song for no reason.

Ugg-style slipper booties are awesome because it’s like having your feet jammed inside a fuzzy stuffed animal, and because woman-feet tend to be in the temperature range of -0 and -1 degrees Fahrenheit, because God hates you.

A face coated in three types of moisturizer is not so much awesome as it’s a requirement if you don’t want to look like current day Jack Palance who, by the way, died 12 years ago.

Greek yogurt is awesome because it has a creamy density and tartness that can’t be replicated by anything else on Earth, it goes well with honey or fancy maple syrup, and if you also crush salted peanuts on top of it, it will appease the hormone demons that hold your brain hostage over the “salty-sweet” thing until you feed them and then they’re still like, “Now how about some meat pizza and root beer?”

Orange is The New Black is awesome because it doesn’t have Ben Affleck in it.

“I don’t give a shit what you think.  You can either start being nice to me, or you can leave.”

Dewd = Guy who sucks

Man = Guy who doesn’t

Now that we’ve got that out of the way…

I do not enjoy Pantera.

For most of my life, were I to admit this type of opinion out loud, it would have meant that I would be relentlessly ridiculed by any dewdz in the room.  In order to avoid the ridicule, I would have to pretend that I liked Pantera.  Even though I can’t stand Pantera.

The closest thing I like to Pantera is Panera.  The “You Pick 2” Turkey Chili and Classic Half Grilled Cheese is my jam, and I’m not afraid to admit it.  You wanted to see me be brave, Sara Bareilles, so there you go.

Plus Panera has an online ordering app.  If you have an app that allows me to order food and pay for it without interacting with a live human, you are my friend for life.

I’ve gotten off-topic here.

So!  Not liking Pantera isn’t about getting older and not liking loud music or guitar wankery.  I adore guitar wankery, despite my opinion that guitar players are the worst kind of scum.  I will listen to Van Halen on 10 any day of the week, and I consider that particular environment to be my natural habitat, actually.

It’s that I’m old enough to stop pretending to like things that dewdz like in order to be accepted by dewdz.

Back when CDs were a thing, that was always the worst part about having a dewd come over to your house for the first time:  the scathing review of your CD collection.  That’s where the dewd sits in front of your CD tower, scans all of the titles from top to bottom, and makes fun of you for anything in there that they find unacceptable – and by “unacceptable”, I mean anything that is even remotely feminine.  Even if you did a preemptive scan and removed anything he might find to make fun of, there’s always something in there that he’ll zero in on and take you to task over.  “What is this?  A Hole record?  Hole sucks!”

Yeah, that’s true.  Girl bands are terrible.  Luckily there have been so many really great dewd bands out there, you know, like Limp Bizkit and Creed, and Godsmack and Staind, to make up for how terrible girl bands are.

What galls me the most when I look back on all the times these situations that happened to me, is not just that these dewdz thought it was their business to inform me of what my own opinions should be about music, but that I never felt I had the agency to say to them, “I don’t give a shit what you think.  You can either start being nice to me, or you can leave.”  But there was no way I was going to do that.

I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.

For insulting me.

I didn’t want to hurt their feelings for insulting me. 

Women are shown from a very young age that it’s our lot in life to be accommodating and agreeable.  To go along.  To not make a scene.  That is someone is being a total jerk to you, you should just stand there and take it rather than risk hurting their feelings by pointing out what a jerk they are.  After all, maybe you’re being over-sensitive, you woman-person?  Boooooooooooooo.

Now, I don’t have children (and I never will because I don’t have the temperament for it, and believe me, that’s doing a kid a favor), but if there is one thing I wish my friends with kids will someday do, it’s to teach their daughters that it doesn’t fucking matter what dewdz think.  Like, it could not matter LESS.

Go ahead – like Sarah MacLachlan.  Like The Notebook.  Like stuffed animals that are cartoon cats dressed as mermaids.  Like “traditionally” girly things with reckless abandon.  If you want to drink pink wine with ice in it, wear a Twilight t-shirt, listen to Destiny’s Child, and watch a Julia Roberts marathon, then do it.  If a dewd has a problem with it, tell him you don’t fucking care what he thinks, and that he can either be nice to you or he can fucking leave.

Under no circumstances should you apologize for liking the things you like.

Because I can assure you he is not even remotely apologetic about all the dewd things he likes, like drinking cheap shit beer and building a fart collage on the couch cushions, wearing a stained Stone Cold Steve Austin t-shirt and crusty-crotched basketball shorts in public and pretending it’s not their dirty pajamas, listening to the aforementioned Pantera, and watching a stupid Fast and Furious Part 12 movie for the tenth time with his asshole friends who spend more money on their personal sword collections than they do on paying their grandma the rent they’ve owed her for the past ten years*.

And if you’re a woman who just happens to like Pantera, that’s cool, too.  Like what you like, and never apologize.


*This is a hypothetical dewd.  It’s certainly not about twenty dewds I used to know.**

**Yes, it is.  It is not actually hypothetical.

The Eyes Are The Window To How Damn Old You Look

I know a lot of women in their 40s think that their ever-deflating jawline is due to the laws of gravity, but I thoroughly disagree.  The bottom of my face seems to be somehow defying the laws of gravity by emptying upwards into my eye sockets.

This is most evident to me when I wake up in the morning and my eye area is so swollen it looks like I slept on a pillow made of bee stings and salt rocks, while the lower half of my face looks like an empty McGruff The Crime Dog mask.

Waking up in the morning in your 40s means you can actually feel how much heavier your top eyelids are as you struggle to open them, and they make a door-slamming sound every time you blink.  It’s like waking up blindfolded until you can get up and get that circulation going in the morning – and by “circulation” I mean “don’t look in the mirror”.  I’ve made a habit of not looking in the mirror at all until I’ve been up and awake for at least an hour.  Any accidental glances prior to that just set the wrong tone for the rest of the day, and I inevitably end up spending the whole day googling cosmetic surgery procedures and figuring out whether I can reasonably contribute less to my Roth IRA in order to pay for them.

On a side note, I used to worry about seeming too shallow for being interested in cosmetic surgery, and then I woke up one day and looked like Wilma Fucking Flintstone and got over the “oh no, what if people think I’m shallow” thing.  I used to be the first person who would tell Wilma Flintstone to love herself and embrace her face, and now I’m like, “How did she ever see out of those pinhole eye-dots?  Jesus Christ, Wilma, get those eye-hangs tacked up!”

And feel free to use eye roller gels, cucumber slices, and frozen spoons to reduce the puffiness.  They do make the swelling go down pretty decently.  The great part is when the swelling goes away, it is replaced by raisiny-creased purple undereye caverns that binge-eat expensive concealer ten minutes after you put it on.  The concealer patch-job looks halfway decent from about twenty feet away or so, but any closer and you’ll notice people’s looks of confusion when they see a map of the Balkans appears to have been sketched under your eyes.

I know, the potions, creams, and rollers that you use totally work!  I should try them!  This is most often shared by someone who has never actually experienced 40-something morning eyes.  If you’re 25 and you tell me your eye cream really works, you can just go jump off a building right now because you are (a) useless, and (b) nobody cares what you have to say.

I am so bothered by how my eyes look in the morning that a few months ago, when my optometrist sent me to an ophthalmologist because she thought I might have the early signs of glaucoma, the first thing I thought was, “Well, at least if I go blind I can cover my eye bags with sunglasses twenty-four hours a day and claim it’s for a medical reason.  If someone at work tries to call me out for just trying to look cool, I will make them feel SO BAD when I drop that glaucoma bomb on them.”  It was one of only a handful of times in my life that I had a “glass half full” reaction to news.

As it turns out, the chances that I have glaucoma are less than one percent, according to my test results.  Regardless, I have to see the ophthalmologist once a year now to make sure my eye innards haven’t deviated from the “baseline” they made in my chart.

I will be addressing “baselines” in a later blog, but spoiler alert, after you turn 40, every doctor finds a reason to establish a “baseline” for almost everything on your body.  It’s like when you’re a kid and they make you stand against the door frame so that they mark off how much you’ve grown, only instead of charting the speed at which you’re growing, they’re charting the speed at which you’re snowboarding downhill towards your eventual coffin, or as I prefer to call it “Shreddin’ To The Grave”.  It sounds metal as fuck that way, and makes you think I am the sporty, outdoor type.

On Hot Young Bodies

The hot bodies of twenty year olds.  Who doesn’t like them?  They’re young, they’re firm, they only have the whispery beginnings of stretch marks where they foolishly think, “What is that?  Is that a scratch on the back of my thigh?  It’s probably just a scratch, I’m sure it’ll go away.”  I mean, these bodies weren’t even around when the original Full House began and ended, and were therefore not subjected to DJ’s asshole boyfriend Steve who totally drove a wedge between DJ’s and Kimmy Gibbler’s friendship like an asshole who gets in the middle of girls’ friendships and is like, “Whut?  Whut?  I didn’t do anything!”  We all know what you did, Steve.  We all know.  God, I hate that guy.

Yeah, so I used to be a twenty year old with a hot body.  I can say that and you can’t call me a conceited asshole for it, because it was twenty-two years ago and, seriously, I was quite the package.  You know who was into me the most, though?  Men twice my age.  I used to think it was because I had that twenty year old body, but as I’ve gotten older and wiser, I’ve come to realize that forty year old men like twenty year old women for two reasons: One, being the aforementioned hot body, but far, far higher on the list than that is that twenty year old women are so, so, so, so, so, so, so stupid.

I should clarify the above statement by fine-tuning the word “stupid” to “naïve”.  When I think back to the buuuuuullshit that I put up with from men when I was twenty, it’s enough to make me literally weep.  I’m sure plenty of women are familiar with the game where they do something super shitty to you, and then convince you that it was either your fault, or not a big deal, or this is just the way men are so you had better get used to it.

Case in point:  When I was eighteen, I dated a guy who was thirty-two.  I was the epitome of emo teenager and he was a “man” with a “PhD”, so I believed everything he told me.  After we had been dating for several months, and he had moved in with me in my bedroom at my mother’s house (because he was homeless), we were driving around downtown Delray (because he had no job) in a car he borrowed from someone (because he had no car) when he casually – and I mean sooo fucking casually – dropped this one on me:

“I was hoping my girlfriend might be able to get a stopover in Miami when she flies from Rome to New York, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen, so that’s too bad.  You two would probably get along great!”

Uhhh.  Girlfriend?  You mean, besides me?

I’m sure this is the part of the story where you’re like, “Oh hayulll no!  I know you kicked him in the jimmies until they were strawberry jam!”

And you should think that, because that is quite literally what I would do if this story had happened when I was forty.  That motherfucker would be hog-tied in an alleyway right now with his dirty underwear stuffed in his mouth as a gag and the many footprints of my sensible shoes permanently imprinted on his scrotum.  He would wake up in a haze and shake his head to try to read the sign I’d put in front of him that says “Welcome to Mag-ghanistan, you punk ass motherfucker” and then pass back out into a pool of his own vomit.

But let’s stay focused here.

So as it turned out, this asshole had a girlfriend in Italy, where he had spent the last few months being a roving musical vagabond (bum), but he and the girlfriend had an “understanding”.  I assume they had the same “understanding” that I had with him, where I paid for everything all the time and he secretly banged anything that moved.

What did I do, you ask?  Nothing.  I did nothing.  I offered no objections.

I sat in the car, mostly in silence except to pretend to agree with him about how uptight Americans are about monogamy (he was American, btw).  Then he dropped me off at home, and I split my knuckle when I punched my metal closet door and spent the rest of the night crying on the bathroom floor.  Not because I was mad at him, but because I felt I had failed as a woman.  Why wasn’t I enough for him?  I was already giving him literally anything he wanted.  The next day, our relationship went on as if none of this had ever happened.  He made me believe I was wrong if I had a problem – as his girlfriend – with the other girlfriend that he had failed to tell me about.  And I believed him.  I believed that if I were “cool” enough to not be rattled by the bullshit he pulled, that I would be worthy of his love.  His unemployed, homeless, carless, cheating love.

And I’ll tell you what – that shit was not an anomaly.  One hundred percent of the older guys I dated when I was a hot young stupid thing were unemployed, homeless, and carless – because I didn’t know any better.  I thought that it was normal for me to have to pay for everything.  I thought it was normal to have someone ask to move in with me on the second date.  I thought it was because they loved me, not because they were homeless.  Hell, when I was sixteen and my boyfriend was twenty-five, I thought it was normal that he complained about the lack of breakfast options that I provided him when he spent the night.  I remember his face, incredulously asking me how he was supposed to make it through the day if all I was going to make for him were blueberry muffins.  He said, “A man can’t be sustained on muffins alone, honey.”  And I didn’t laugh.  Or punch him.  I apologized and made him eggs.  Forty year old me?  That fucker would wish he were only getting a one-way trip to Mag-ghanistan.

Here’s the deal, dewdz.  I’m not saying don’t date twenty year old women.  Twenty year old women are awesome, at least I know I was.  I could stay out all night dancing, dress strictly 70s from the thrift store and look cool as hell and not at all insane, and I was so willing to love and accept.  Too willing for the men who showed up to take me up on it.

I guess what I’m saying is feel free to date twenty year old women, but you better fucking be nice to them.  You better not take advantage of their naivete.  You better never, and I mean ever, roll your eyes at the seemingly immature stuff they say, because they’re not immature.  They’re just being the age that they are.  They’re saying exactly the kind of stuff they should say, because they’re still practically kids, for crying out loud.  Don’t ruin being young for them.  And you better not fucking make them feel like any of the stupid shit you pull on them is their fault, because you know damn well it isn’t.

Oh yeah, and don’t try to put it in twenty year olds’ butts.  They don’t like it.

Build a Doomsday Shelter. I’m Back, Bitches.

Oh hey, I’ve started blogging again.  I took six years off.  Needed it.

Let’s start with an easy one.  

The Sleeping Sweating Thing

I woke up in a pool of sweat last night, my skin slick with perspiration from head to toe, the underside of my hair matted against the back of my neck, and my bangs stuck to my forehead like I had just emerged from the birth canal of a walrus.  I was as soaked as the walrus that had, apparently, just given birth to me.  My heart was pounding in my ears, and my throat was as hot and dry as a pizza oven, which also made me immediately crave pizza, and curse the lack of bedside pizza options.  

I threw the covers off the top of me and cursed the person who invented covers to begin with.  Who puts covers??  On the bed?!  I lay there and tried to work up some tears to relieve my frustration, but it turns out I didn’t have enough motivation to do anything besides stare at the ceiling in rage and kick myself for saying that dumb thing that one time in the first grade.  Plus, I prefer to save my tears up for real emotional breakdowns, like when I pull up to the gas pump on the wrong side again and it’s just THE LAST THING I CAN TAKE THAT DAY.  

With the covers thrown off, I am freezing cold within minutes.  Then I curse the person who invented cold.  Why can’t everywhere just be the same temperature all the time??  Why is everyone against me?!  Then I pull the covers back on and fall back to sleep.  Then twenty minutes later I wake up in the pool of sweat again.  

You’re probably wondering what on earth happened last night that brought this all on, that maybe I had that one nightmare where I find out Ryan Seacrest actually IS my spirit animal, or that there’s breaking news that Cheez-Its is going out of business, but nope.  This happens pretty much every night, usually between 3am and 4am.  It’s been going on for over a year now, and I’ve gotta tell you, it puts me in a great mood.  

It’s a fun game I like to call perimenopause.  Control yourself, boys. 

Anytime I talk about my perimenopause, the immediate reaction from literally everybody is that I’m too young for this shit.  For the record, I am turning 42 in a few months.  My mother went through “The Change” when she was, you guessed it, 42.  

Also – and this is a pro tip so you might want to write this one down – when someone tells you they’re having a hard time with a medical/hormonal issue and you tell them they’re not, you are telling them that they are a big fat liar who makes shit up.   Telling someone that they are not experiencing the thing that they themselves are experiencing is a level of bullshittery that makes my blood boil, then freeze, then boil again, so you can just knock that right the hell off.

In case you can’t tell, my swirling hormones have also made me a little more “punchy” these days.  My patience is non-existent.  My ability to tolerate bullshittery is nil.  Oh ho hooo, if you wrong me?  We’ll get into that later, after the next person tries me, which should be about five minutes from now.

What I’m saying is build a doomsday shelter.  I’m back, bitches.  

(Shout out to Thomas Mitchell for designing my kickass logo up top there.  If you are in need of such services, he’s a solid dude and I couldn’t recommend him more.  Hit me up at if you want me to put you in touch with him.)