When life throws a curve ball, you either wait for the next one, hit it out of the park, or you strike out. No matter where T goes, there’s always some random guy hanging around drooling over her. Or two. Most of the time she feels flattered but not interested. Enjoys their chit chat and thanks them for the drink. Moves along. I’ve seen it happen and it’s quite fascinating. Reminds me when we were teens with our big hair and tight jeans at the roller rink. Guys always flanked her and flattered her. Bought her Slurpees and licorice.
So when T feels a spark of interest in return, it’s time to pay attention. Except I didn’t. Pay attention that is. Lost track of her one night while out dancing at the club. Which is when she met a guy who made her stomach flutter and flip. Either that or it was gas from the chicken tacos.
The next day, she asked what I thought of him. I couldn’t remember anything after that third shot of tequila and don’t recall even leaving the dance floor so I listened as she regaled me with his finer points: how attractive he was, what he did for a living, where he lives, how he’d already texted her to say how nice it was to meet her.
Dang, the guy sounded too good to be true. You know what they say “if it walks like a duck, watch out for its poo on the golf course.” Or something like that.
So I had to meet him again for the first time - check him out for my BFF. Give the official “you’re right, he rocks!” thumbs up and wink wink.
My first impression of him was that he was he was kind of a tool. The things coming out of his mouth at a cocktail party I was hosting reminded me of a four year old asking his mommy if the heavyset lady next to her was pregnant. But nothing surprised me more than when he started dancing. Oh yeah.
Apparently Mr. Slick likes to dance. And by dance, I don’t mean the way most men in their late forties dance, you know they type. They cluck their arms and step back and forth, their upper teeth gripping their bottom lip. You can hear them silently counting out beats of four.
Oh no, Mr. Slick is the other guy. The one who unbuttons his shirt and runs his hands through his hair, shakes his hips and reaches out to a chick nearby compelling her to come forward. When he started dancing on top of my raised fireplace, I thought at first he was making fun of someone. My guests all gathered around and watched him go. I sorta puked up in my mouth.
T was not amused. Started seeing him a little differently after that. And by differently I mean she wouldn’t go dancing with him. By the time I finally could give my thumbs up that he didn’t completely suck, she had seen enough. She’d enjoyed his chit chat and thanked him. Move along.
She discovered that even attractive, successful, and charming men can have flaws. But she learned what flaws she could live with as a suddenly single gal over 40 and decided she didn’t need anyone who would unleash his mortifying dancing moves on an innocent crowd. “If my pre-teen son saw that, he might try it. It’s like drugs, just say no.”
I agree. The Mr. Slicks out there can move to their own beat if they choose, but choosy mothers must choose wisely.
Suz was used to the anonymity of living in a big city. She could go to the store in her ratty sweats if she wanted to and no one would notice. And she could sleep in til noon and stay up all night and not worry whether anyone was noting it down. So when Suz bought her her ranch in the country, she was not prepared for her sudden notoriety with the local townsfolk.
Her ranch is quite a ways outside of the nearest town, and I mean quite a ways. First time I visited, we drove past the main town and continued through mile after mile of quiet country road toward her place. My first thought of the town and outskirts was it should be called Moseyalongfolks...
Being a suddenly single gal over 40 who drives a badass Jeep, takes life less seriously and laughs easily, it shouldn’t have surprised her that people would start to take notice.
The first time she went to the local market, the cashier said “hey, aren’t you the new chick with badass Jeep?” What the eff? OK, she figured small town, new face, yeah that’s not a stretch, but knowing what she drove? Creepy in an I-Know-What-You-Did-Last-Summer kind of way.
And then there was the time she was getting gas in town and the attendant came over and asked “how’re your horses gettin along – settlin down yet?” Were people watching her? Crap, did they also know she drove her golf cart half naked around the ranch at night? Right then, she felt about as anonymous as Britney Spears in rehab.
Seemed everywhere she went the locals would share what they knew about her ranch, Jeep, dogs, and horses. The freak factor was huge. Like having her Facebook account hacked. And while the locals all seemed sincere, she knew their curiosity and her sudden lack of privacy was the trade-off for living in a small town. “If I wanted every Tom, Dick, and Harry to know shit about me, I’d date them. Here, every Tom, Dick, and Harry knows shit about me and I didn’t even get a steak dinner out of it.”
The day Suz knew without a doubt “we’re no longer in Kansas Toto”, was when her teenage son asked where all the gang bangers were. She figured the bangers probably keep to the big city to avoid stopping for gas in places like Moseyalongfolks and having the attendants ask “how’re you bangers gettin along here in the country – sellin drugs yet?”
Yeah, there are trade-offs with country living. In the country, a drive by shooting usually meant a local had found dinner.
I don’t know if I could ever move to a small town. When Suz told me she bought a ranch in the country, I think I expected the townsfolk to all be missing teeth, talking hillbilly, and wearing dirty overalls. And then I’d chat with Suz and sometimes find out how close I was. But mostly, I’d be reminded that reality is sometimes far different than what you expected. Sometimes, different is exactly what you never knew you even wanted.
It wouldn’t take long before Suz felt right at home in her new life. She had eased into a new world full of colorful people who welcomed her with interesting stories and found a comfortable place where everyone knows your name.
(But she did start wearing full sweats when driving the golf cart at night, just in case.)
When Suz moved in to her ranch, she felt this thrill of independence and a pride of self-reliance that can only come from doing something on your own for the first time.
Life was a series of new firsts for her. Her first time carrying the mortgage by herself, the first time decorating a home by herself, the first time mucking a stall.
In other words, she had been re-virginized and was back to being the master of her domain. {wink}
As a suddenly single gal over forty, Suz finds she doesn’t always need a man to give her a happy ending. It’s nice, but not always necessary. Sometimes a hand-held tool works just as well, and without all the drama. Take, for example, that time in the shower…
Suz had just spent a whole day in the yard, weeding and mowing and planting oh my. She was quite a dirty girl and began fantasizing about a cool stream of water and a long cold beer. And while the beer lived up to her expectations, the cool stream of water did not. The left handle on the shower broke. Now Suz is not a plumber, but she does know enough to fix her toilet “It’s the ball cock – it’s always the damn ball cock. When you lift it up, it stops whining. When you let the ball drop, it starts bitching all over again.” However, she is not a plumber. She wears her jeans low on her hips granted, but there is no crack a-showing, thus she failed the most basic qualification to be a plumber…
The newly broken shower handle meant she’d have to hire someone to come take care of her, or rather, her shower.
Ordinarily, having been married when situations like these would arise, Suz would get asshat to take care of it. No fuss, no muss on her part. However, being all independent and self-reliant, she decided to think outside the box. Was amazed at what a simple wrench can do. No fuss, no muss. And now the shower works with a twist of the wrist. The beer tasted even better. All by herself, she found a happy-enough ending for the moment.
Alas, all good things must end. She knew she’d have to take of it for real at some point. Not long after, she started dating a nice young man who had an awesome set of tools and his plumber butt was quite nice. Knew how to use them if you know what I mean. And what I mean is that he fixed the shower, and did so without complaint one weekend for her. Afterward, she smiled happily as she turned the handle instead of the wrench, and a long cool stream of water flowed. And she found a real happy ending to her shower saga. Afterward, they drank a beer. And it tasted better than ever.
First times are almost always painful. Sometimes, you regret what you just did. Mostly, you apply what you learned and if you’re really lucky, it’s worth it in the end. Hey that sounds wrong! What I mean is… broken shower handles are a pain in the butt and when you don’t know how to fix it, you may panic and make it worse by stripping the threads or busting a pipe. So you have to choose – try to fix it, try to workaround it, or get some help.
When faced with the pros, cons, and implications of the choices in front of her, Suz chose all three – and then found a handy handyman with a great set of tools and a nice butt.
As memorial day weekend unfolds this year, it reminds me of a pretty wild and fun memorial weekend before I graduated from high school.
My prom was held on memorial weekend. The prom itself was silly for me, back then and even today. Me and my HS BFF went with a couple of guys from our clique. My guy was actually a childhood friend and hers was the class rebel, the guy with the leather jacked and mustache. She was secretly in love with him. We all were back then. He was always in trouble back then – and as a result our prom night had to end by midnight, they told us, in order for him to make curfew or some bullshit.
I think I knew what bullshit smelled like and it has the distinctive odor of polo mixed with teen spirit. Light a match, it would explode, not dispel. Like a bad fart.
At the prom, we hooked up with other chick rebels of our time. Like a bouquet of pastel flowers with lots of makeup with big hair and attitude, we took off and drank vodka out of a flask and wondered why the hell we went to prom in the first place. We were not joiners. We ditched class ditch day; there was no football in our Friday nights. We drank, smoke, and generally caused commotion wherever we went. It was great. It was alive. It was life as a teen in the 80s.
So why were we home by midnight? Oh yeah, the curfew thing. Right. Which kinda was okay after all. I had the house to myself, a benefit for the kid of the travel agent on a “fam-trip”. My HS BFF and I just looked at each other, smiled, and decided to grab the weekend by its proverbially big shoulder-padded, blue eye-shadowed over-loaded girl-craziness. Feeling empowered by Cyndi Lauper singing how we felt, well, “girls just want to have fun” was our weekend anthem.
By 7am, we called Suz and T and arranged a daisy chain. Everyone called everyone and before we knew it, we had close to a hundred people at my house for an impromptu summer pool party. Suz, T and I giggled. Grabbed our
We grilled everything mom left for me and it was delicious. Some cool older guys brought a couple cases of beer, it all tasted terrific together. I still have the pictures, both in print and in my head. Suz and I still have those memories of those older, fabulous, and glorious boys who caught our attention for a spell, whose name we can’t remember, but whose biceps will burn in our brains forever.
When Suz, T and I go down that path of “do you remember this”, I am usually the one who struggles the most and must rely on them to paint the colors of the edges that are faded for me. And while there are posts in our future crystallizing some of my more fuzzy memories of the crazy roller skating, after parties, dancing, Vallejo and Piedmont crew days we all share, I take solace in at least the fact that I remember this one.
For me, my strolls down memory lane are usually powered by my gal pals vivid spotlight dances. I am more thankful now than ever for them. And by them, I mean Suz and T. And I guess I also mean the memories of our girl-powered, girl-fueled crazy times. All girls should have these.
Now that I’m older I know it’s the not the events you plan for that turn out the best, it’s the ones that just sort of come together at the last minute that feel right and just work - that make everyone want to relive, recall and if you’re really lucky, repeat them.
So as 2010’s memorial weekend is fast upon us, I urge everyone to make the memories last as long as we can and perhaps choose to remember them.
They say honesty is the best policy. I usually agree unless a colleague is telling me I look tired, or when prompted, a friend admits my jeans are too tight for my age. Hey, I’m not the only chick out there who does her best to look her best after getting paid a visit from Mother Nature in the form of extra bags under the eyes and on her hips. She insults me with a muffin top and cottage cheese butt and then encourages me to wear a string bikini with my girlfriends at the pool.
Yep, I did that. You see, I have hot friends. Smokin hot friends. The kind who turn heads and piss off other women our age, even though I suspect they don’t know this.
It was last July, and T and I decided to get away to my cabin in the mountains. Bring our favorite GNO pals, J and K. Let me describe these ladies so you get the picture, and the angst.
K is my “popstar” friend. Equally tall, with the most toned and tanned body and quite a nice rack (I’m just being objective here…) Long curly hair and looks a lot like a popstar that if you saw her, you’d second guess who’s who.
So when we hit the pool at the club last summer, one by one strutted in, took to their lounge chairs, and I watched as pretty much everyone over the age of puberty took notice as the cover ups came down.
We sat near the diving end, and call it coincidence but all of a sudden, men were lining up to try their cannonballs, back flips, and swan dives. T flipped her big hair and opened a magazine. J started texting her boyfriend. K went and got us a cocktail from the bar. Women threw daggers as her tight little body walked by, with no wiggle and all the right jiggle. K didn't notice.
I was absolutely dreading taking off my wrap. I all of a sudden felt as if my itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini was simply a postage stamp and possibly no longer appropriate for the kiddie crowd. I was also worried of the judgement in my gal pal’s eyes.
After a couple bloody mary’s, and 105 degree weather beating on my skin, I took my wrap off. Hiding behind my biggest sunglasses, I watched their faces for reaction. K immediately dropped her jaw and exclaimed “Oh my goodness, you look terrific. Wow.” Followed by J who admitted she wished she had my boobs. T and I just looked at each other and smiled. She knew how important it was for me to hear their words.
Compared to my hot “super model”, “popstar”, and “bombshell” gal pals, I always tend to feel like a caterpillar. I don’t know why I worried they would judge me and find me lacking, I guess it’s because I judge me. And while I’d give up the ability to wear my 4” heels in order to have a smoking hot size nothing body, or be toned and tanned, there’s something very appealing about being proud no matter my size.
I don’t know where T got this. This comfort in her own skin. Maybe she just has no time or emotional energy to deal with more on her plate right now. Or if I’m being completely honest, maybe she just knows she’s beautiful and sexy just the way she is.
So what have I learned from my suddenly single and fabulous-just-the-way-she-is gal pal? That I have a long way to go with feeling her sense of comfort, but I get to watch her metamorphosis as she grows into who she is as a single mom, and perhaps she's already helping to change my own self-image as caterpillar into a butterfly.
The dating scene today doesn’t sound so fun. Back when I was single and dating, it was fun. A lot of fun {wink}. Of course, back then, I recall channeling my inner blond ambition and I was after all, in my twenties. There was no shortage of ways to meet guys. Cruising down main, hanging at the mall, dancing, skating, you name it. Easy.
So when I heard the story of Mary, single at forty, who met a nice guy on an internet dating site, I thought about how hard it is to even find a guy to date these days, much less find a guy that is well, easy to date.
She met Abdul online after he had immigrated here from
She set a date and he called her a couple days prior to confirm the plans. Abdul told her how excited he was and then told her about this fabulous place he wanted to meet her at. It was the International House of Pancakes.
Yes. IHOP.
Mary was momentarily non-plussed. Did he just say IHOP? as in “I would like to take my queen on a date at IHOP?” So she gently asked “Just to clarify, you want to go to IHOP? I didn’t realize they served dinner at the International House of Pancakes…”
He quickly assured her that there was a misunderstanding, “I apologize Mary, it must be my English.” She immediately felt better until “I want to meet you for breakfast, I have a two-for-one coupon.” Discount dating is not okay. Call it cultural differences, call it what you want. Mary called it right there. “I don’t think so.” And with that, put him back on the shelf.
Mary akins her dating experience in her forties to shopping for just the right thing. Which is never easy. We know what we want, but can’t seem to find the right store. Or the right price.
With internet dating, she expected to find hidden treasures waiting to be discovered. What she got was the equivalent to bargain shopping at the dollar store. She found something that might fit but upon closer inspection, it was a size too small. Some women might keep it thinking it will fit one day, but Mary was smart to put it back. After all isn’t that how we end up with so much baggage in the first place?
Suz has two horses – generally speaking. She’s got a barn and she’s got 2 horses, but sometimes the horses aren’t in the barn and they aren’t on her ranch. Sometimes the horses go for a stroll.
She used to board the horses when she lived in the big city but once she left asshat and got her own place, she took the horses, dogs, and kids, and moved on in. The horses settled in the barn and she, the kids and dogs took over the main house. The living arrangement was easy and everyone was happy.
The front-door would open, the dogs would hang on the porch or chase each other and they made new friends. The kids started their new school and chased each other and made new friends. And the horses ate their hay and escaped their barn and made new friends. ‘Cept the horse’s new friends were not so friendly and not so equine.
Suz would go to work, the kids to school and all was well in the world until she started getting urgent phone calls from the local po-po that her horses were peeping into the neighbor’s homes and scaring the country folk. “It’s just not done here. You have to keep your horses in the barn, they aint sposed to roam free in these parts.” Sheriff Buford was mighty serious about this too.
For a good six months, Moe and Curly (those are their nicknames) nosed open the barn and snuck out like errant teenagers in search of greener pastures. Sorta. Mainly, they just wanted to roam the hood. Sow the wild oats. Knock up a little filly.
With lots of laughter and mild apologies, Suz would lasso the horses and rein them back in. Look the other way when the barn door would creak open. Let them circle the paddock a time or two and then dangle the carrot so they’d come back easily.
The adventures of Moe and Curly are so typical they are comical. They are so part of nature that you can’t change it without changing the creature. Whether equine or human, if your stud is no longer trying to get inside your barn, it’s a sign. Maybe there’s really only three choices here: it’s either time to break his spirit, move along with it, or mosey on your way folks. I can tell you the horses are safely tucked into the barn right now…
However, Suz mosied on and left asshat because she couldn’t move along with his wandering ways and wasn’t willing to break his spirit. She wisely knew that the hardest thing to do is to let a wild horse roam free. I could be talking about her as well. And I supposed I am. She’s also a wild horse and she does roam free now. With her flaming red mane, she runs with abandon and joy. Tall and proud. The way nature intended.
The cup runneth over. And then some. In life, when you have more than you need, what does a suddenly single gal do with the overflow?
I pondered this question when I saw T back in March. We were away for the weekend and she was all done up and falling out. I thought she would tip over actually. For a 5'7" gal, wearing 4” heels, and being over forty, she took huge risks with her person. And I would know. You simply cannot teeter on stilts with your tits up to your chin, blocking your view of the hazards your feet will find. You gotta tuck them boobies in and aim your feet very carefully.
But T wasn't aware of this sage wisdom of mine. I’ve been big boobied for a long time and have learned how to deal with those obstacles. And by obstacles I’m referring to the boobs. They get in the way of everything: doors, steering wheels, tables, golf swings, serious conversations with the opposite sex who can't seem to look above the collar bone. But they are fun {wink.}
One of T’s friends took her bra shopping “you gotta shine a light on your own star, girl”. At first she was skeptical, after all she’d had two kids and her little girls were no longer sitting upright in class if you know what I mean. But, with a fresh look on
life, she decided what the hay, give it a try. Grabbed her Coach bag, flipped her big hair, and walked into Victoria's Secret.
Her friend introduced her to a bra called “Miraculous” and it lived up to its name. She turned molehills into mountains. The bra was outstanding. Her little girls grew up fast! With a big smile, and even bigger girls behind the wheel, she took them out for a test drive. Traffic came to a stop. Collisions ensued. T giggled. Decided to buy a couple more, "I never knew they could do this". And by they, she meant the girls...
It’s been a rough year for my gal pal and sometimes girls just need a little lift here and there. I found the answer to my pondering about cups that runneth over. In bras as well as life, the excess we sometimes get from the support we have is the only way we know that we’re doing something pretty darn good and special. It reminds me of all that is generous. I say let your cups runneth over ladies.
What's with all the hookups on Facebook? There are fan pages and blogs devoted to the FB hookup. What is a hookup? Hanging out, making out, or a one-night stand? And why is it all centering around Facebook?
It seems that reconnecting with your old pals from high school has turned into high school drama all over again. It's been a LONG time since I was in high school. I had drama. Heck, I generated drama. My besties (see, I'm reverting to HS and FB language in this post already) and I were hellions. I'm gonna have to leave it at that, but if you knew me, you know what I'm talking about. But when we graduated, we left behind the drama of our teens and moved on the drama of our twenties. The drama changed from which kegger to go to and what guys were gonna be there, to not being able to pay the rent and getting fired from jobs. I will admit that as I get older, the thought of a do-over in HS is a very intriguing thought. If I knew then what I know now, hilarious is what HS would have been.
So T and I were talking about how FB is changing our social connections - sounds so intellectual when I put it that way - when she admitted that she has over 300 friends. A lot of them are from high school. And men. They seem to raid each other's friend lists looking for potential hookups. She gets men-requests daily. Sometimes multiples. Which in itself must be somewhat empowering. Of course, T is this gorgeous woman, all legs and big hair. And a smooth forehead {ha!}.
They strike up a private chat with her and try to get her to go have “coffee”. Un huh, right. One guy was at least honest, “T, you seem like you could use a massage, let’s do a tandem one and afterward, I’ll take you to dinner…” Now, I’m not saying T is naïve, but she really thought the massage was legit. Of course, it was inevitable she’d finally accept an invitation for “coffee.” Hey, is a suddenly single girl after 40 expected to do otherwise?
So she met up with an old HS friend she found attractive and it was mutual. One flick of her big locks and one flutter of her lashes did him in. They decided to be Facebook-Friends-With-Benefits. It was casual and fun. Until it was no longer casual and fun…
Apparently Mr. FBFWB decided it was a little more serious than she did and began texting her and calling her, and posting on his wall a lot. This was the equivalent to passing notes in study hall and whispering loudly by the lockers about the hookup. Not ok. Back in your late teens you could have casual sex with a friend and leave it there. Today in your 40s that just aint so. The only benefit to a FBFWB is that you're getting a hookup in the first place. The downside is that at our age, there is no free lunch. You gonna play, you gonna pay. When Mr. FBFWB began stalking her wall, she had to cut him loose. No more wall contact, no more skin contact. She'll miss those benefits, but they were really outside the policy she purchased...(insurance humor!)
High school romance is best left for the tweens and teens – and they recover faster from an all night kegger. T sticks to men she meets at gas stations now. Especially that one that looks like Jason Aldean...
Guys like big guns.Who can blame them – big guns represent power, vitality, life. They are sexy and give us confidence. Wait…what do you think I’m talking about here?? I’m talking about rifles, shotguns, pistols. You are all dirty minded fools. Well sorta.
I’m actually a fan of revolvers. I like the weight in my hand and the fact that despite the 2 lbs of titanium plates including 8 screws in my wrist from a horrible roller skating accident (I can’t make this shit up, I swear!), I can pull the trigger and shoot to kill.
Of course, I live in liberal northern
Fade to close… Suz and I are wearing camo, head to toe. We’ve greased our faces, and are sporting leaves and other wildlife in our hair. Our boots are tightly tied, and our guns are cocked. It’s 6:00a in the morning, the sun is not even thinking about rising yet. We’re camped out in a deer hide eight feet up. We’ve peed already so we’re relaxed and ready. Focused. The bucks begin scampering through the forest… looking for food…
OK, so I am a suburban chick who wouldn’t harm a spider (ok, I lie, but I wouldn’t harm a mosquito-eater) so the fantasy stops there. At least for me. Suz however is an NRA-certified rifle instructor. She and another gal pal take city dwellers out into the country and make men of them. Or better women at least.
She’s one bad-ass chick who can shoot the eye out of a spider at 30 yards. Ok that’s a lie. But she does hunt, and she does get away with it on her ranch. Suz is about 5’ 7”, dark auburn hair, deeply tanned, wide smile and eyes that will pin you down and knock you out. She is a take-no-prisoners chick. So when her ranch was invaded by the locals, she fought back, and won. With a Glock in one hand, her Smith and Wesson in the other, she charges out the door shooting up wayward critters intent on wreaking havoc. I won’t judge her for shooting squirrels – but Sparticus, my doggly did. He thought that was wrong. “I can watch those squirrels run up and down and across the trees all day. When they hit they ground, I’ll chase them down and bark them back up. It’s oodles of fun Mommy. Why does Suz kill the fun ones?” So I guess he doesn’t quite understand her point of view on the squirrel subject.
I often imagine what it would be like for Suz to meet the Nug. They have a lot in common and both are very cool, if not eccentric with the whole hunting thing. The Nug is well known for his mayhem, outspokenness and bad-ass Bronco. If he met Suz, he’d fall in love.
I’ve often fantasized what it would be like it we threw out the law on abusive, adulterous husbands who toss you out to fend for yourselves in the wild. Would it be similar to sport hunting, albeit with lots ‘o cause? Right or wrong, there’s something quite delicious about fantasies involving big guns. I’m just saying.
Until I realized that the term cougar meant something else. Urban dictionary says a cougar is an older woman who frequents clubs in order to score with a much younger man. The cougar can be anyone from an overly-surgically-altered-wind-tunnel victim, to a real hottie or milf. Guys like cougars cuz they have their shit together. “That cougar I met last night, showed me shit I didn't know existed, I'm goin back for more”
I have no idea where she meets these random young guys, but I get to hear the stories. Which are usually colorful, flavorful, and bountiful. A harvest of boy toys. A cornucopia of horny guys hanging around her quoting the hooker in Full Metal Jacket “me love you long time.” And then backing it up apparently. And repeatedly. With lots of animal growls?
Suz says she like them younger (not too young, pimples are not sexy), open-minded, and energetic. Suz is all woman, who’s been around the block a time or two and knows what she doesn’t want anymore. She doesn’t want any reminder of her ex-asshat. He was an old fart who sucked the life out of her. She wants fresh and fun and nothing serious. And frequent. Lots and lots of fresh and fun. And yummy. “ Older guys want me to play mommy, taking care of them and their shit. Been there, eff that, done that.” Retain this: cougars have voracious appetites and Suz has always been particularly fond of cake. Beef cake.
When Suz and I were teens, sporting mullets, we wore a ton of makeup, lots of pastels, and even more attitude. When we’d go to the clubs, the men (err boys) all took notice. While the mullets thankfully grew out, and we gave up the pastels (well, she did, I still wear lilac), and toned down the makeup (well, she did, I still wear lots of eyeliner), the men still pause when we walk into the room (we’re loud and proud …)
But the attitude – it’s still there and still fierce – like a warm blanket keeping her warm on cold southern nights. When the tornadoes kick up the dust on her ranch, she squares off with a pointed look daring it to touch her kids, home, horses, and dogs – and they back off. That’s ‘tude for you. Does that mean she's a cougar? I dunno, it just means she's a girl who wants to have fun. Label it what you want. She doesn't care, and I don't either. Guess that's our 'tude too.
Suz has always known who she is, and while she might have forgotten that inner crazy bitch for about 14 years, leaving asshat reacquainted her with the girl she was. The combination of the two shades of Suz is quite powerful, where men are to be enjoyed and savored, and there is a time and place for seriousness, and that time is not yet. A leopard doesn't change its spots so who says you can’t have your cake and eat it too?
I’d laugh at her for being so vain if I hadn’t followed suit and copied her. Went to the same doctor, got the same treatment, and now have the same dazed and stunned look on my face that is on hers.
So while I can do the incredulous look on my face for the “really?”, I can’t do the “seriously?” part because it requires abilities I just won’t have again for about six months.
If you have to ask why the hell we did that, you don’t get it. You either have no crow’s feet or you don’t care that you have crow’s feet. Bravo to you I say.
T did this in the past, when she was still married and could happily spend money on all the usual girl googaws: Coach handbags, expensive hair treatments, designer clothes. Now that she’s living the vida loca y sola (translation: crazy and single life), she’s had to ration her pennies a bit. Which means Coach knock-offs, Miss Clairol, and Forever 21. But that doesn’t extend to botox. Apparently. (OK, so I fib just a weensy bit about the knock-offs – T wouldn’t be caught dead with a fake Coach bag…)
I think what I like best about this story is it means T will have to come up with a new sass-phrase. One that she can live with, and teach me how to do, for at least for the next six months or so.
When Suz came out to visit T and I last May, we decided to mark the 25+ year friendship with a tattoo. Something that meant a lot to the 3 of us. We got to talking and googling and finally settled on stars. The idea for the stars is pretty simple and pretty awesome. “Like stars in the sky, you can't always see your friends, but they are there, and will share your secrets and wishes...”
So stars is was to be. Three of them, one representing each of us and in our favorite color. We found a great design and then went in search of the right place. The first place looked cute, very English country manor on the outside. Inside, it’s a different picture. Imagine a dude named Curly with long hair and even longer beard, with a leather vest and untied boots, and in one hand – he’s licking pizza grease off his fat little fingers and in the other – a needle sratching ink into the shoulder of some guy who looked asleep. Not sure if the guy was drunk, drugged, or disinterested, we decided to browse until Curly finished his pizza and pot flower design. Flipped thru some polaroids of various hoohaw piercings that would make even Larry Flint blush. Wondered how
Place number two was all business. Took Amex, had a receptionist, scheduled appointments… and we studiously avoided the glamour shots. Cha-ching!
The big day finally arrived with a huge hangover and the need for some hair of the dog. Donning loose fitting clothes, a bagel and several tequila shots, the 3 gal pals headed out for some permanent reminders of our everlasting friendship.
Our tattoo artist was this hip 20 year-old Asian hottie with big fake eyelashes and a push up bra pushing up big fake boobies. She totally rocked. T was the first in the chair. Suz and I popped gum and giggled while T gripped the chair and tore out handfuls of her big hair. Panted and fanned herself. T can’t handle needles. Faints in fact if she sees them (but that’s another story for another time.) How she made it thru the tat is still a mystery.
Suz just sat there – looking calm and frankly, bored. That’s my Suz, full of chick power but flicking her eyes from me, to T, to the ceiling and back. It was eerie. Flick. Flick.
The really cool thing about tattoos is that they are a permanent reminder of an event. Even without the ink, we’d still remember that day: stars, tequila, giggles and gals. But it makes us thank our lucky stars is to have gal pals that we can see up in the sky and above our bikini lines, whenever we need them.
